


Noctis

by aa23



Series: Noctis [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/M, idk what i'm doing but this should be interesting to write i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-27 12:16:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 68,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10020410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aa23/pseuds/aa23
Summary: Feyre Archeron lost her voice a year ago, during an incident that she is too uncomfortable, too embarrassed about to recount to anyone. Leaving her family behind, Feyre now finds herself in the terrible country of Prythian, full of criminals and... gangs. Lover of the High Lord of the Spring Court, Feyre ends up in a horrible situation when trying to help him out of a rather large mess.However, Feyre doesn't realise that being held a prisoner, meeting Rhysand, is exactly what she needs to be free.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really shouldn't be writing now with my GCSEs coming up in May but hey what's life without a few risks

_Let me go with you._

“No.”

The rejection was already in the air before Tamlin had even opened his mouth. Feyre didn’t know why she tried this every time he left their apartment—he said no every single time.

But this time, she needed to go with him. Over the past few weeks she had been seeing less and less of Tam; he would wake up earlier than her every morning, pressing a quick goodbye kiss to her lips if she ever woke up when he did, and he’d return home during late hours of the night, times at which Feyre would already be asleep or would be so tired from waiting up for him they would never be able to go further than a few minutes of kissing before she fell asleep.

Just from those few minutes of seeing him, Feyre could tell he was stressed. And whenever she asked, he would shrug it off. She knew the risks of Tamlin’s work, of how much trouble he could get into if other countries decided to pay better attention to this part of the continent, to Prythian, full of thieves and criminals and gamblers. He promised her every time, though, that he was safe—that _she_ was safe—but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t need to worry anymore.

She had even repeatedly pushed Lucien—Tam’s best friend and right hand man—to tell her something, anything about what was going on. The only shred of response she had gotten was a hesitant, uncomfortable look from Lucien when she asked–or, rather, signed to—him if Tam was in trouble—and it was the only confirmation she needed.

Now what she needed was to find out exactly _what_ kind of trouble.

And what she could do to bring him out of it.

 _Tamlin_ , Feyre tried forcing her voice to actually do some good for once, reaching out to grab his large hand. He squeezed hers gently, leaning forward to place a kiss on Feyre’s forehead. She sat up from her sleeping position on their bed, getting onto her knees so she would be eye level with him, placing her hands on his chest, clad in a tight tunic. She looked up at him, putting on the best pleading face she could.

All she received was a smile and another kiss in return. “You don’t need to,” Tamlin whispered against her skin, his hands moving downwards to hold her waist. “I’ll… I’ll try to come home early tonight, okay? We’ll have dinner together, and...”

She finished the sentence for him for him with her hand, stroking it down his muscled chest to his crotch, feeling the hard lump there, for her, and smiling softly.

 Tamlin’s lips spread in a devilish grin, eyelids fluttering close. “Exactly,” his voice was suddenly deep, hungry, “To make up for the past few weeks.” He leaned forward to Feyre’s ready lips, a soft kiss waiting for him. She silently whined when he pulled back seconds later, only to place another kiss on the tip of her nose. “I love you,” Tam said, and all Feyre could do was lean back and watch as he turned his back to her and walked away. She sat back on their vast bed, holding the white sheets to her naked body, listening as his footsteps faded as he left the apartment, the front door shutting close behind him.

Getting up, Feyre strode to the little window next to their bed, pulling away the green curtains just slightly enough to see Tam walk out of the building, check his surroundings, and make his way to wherever he was going. Lucien, as he had promised her, was not accompanying Tamlin today—at least, not that early in the morning.

While with Tamlin everything was a direct “no” (although she understood… or tried to understand… why he behaved that way, because he was afraid of something happening to her in that horrible country, the one he was too tied to, to get out of, while she was too tied to him to leave), Lucien was more open to negotiation; his opinions were usually sided with her more than with Tamlin, yet when the time came for him to verbally admit so, he would never take that leap.

Feyre tried not to mind; she knew how much Tamlin had done for Lucien, how Lucien felt indebted to his somewhat best friend.

Yet, sometimes, with enough coaxing, Lucien would do Feyre a few favours, whether or not Tamlin approved. This was one of those days. Lucien had agreed to sneak her in and out of wherever it was that he and Tam were having their “business meeting”, without Tamlin’s knowledge, so she would at least know what was going on.

And figure out how to help him.

 

* * *

 

 

It was right after lunchtime when Lucien had appeared at Feyre and Tamlin’s door, looking unsettled. He asked her repeatedly if she was sure, if she was really willing to go against Tamlin’s wishes, and a determined, stern look from Feyre shut him up. Feeling awful for using him against his own friend—leader, too—Feyre made sure to express her gratitude as deeply as possible in the tight hug she gave him right before he escorted her out of the apartment.

“You need to be absolutely quiet, Feyre.”

 _Are you kidding me?_ Feyre rolled her eyes at Lucien—but he seemed to be serious about it. “You know what I meant,” He said, shaking his head, “Not verbally of course, but physically. Anything you do might set off some sort of alarm, and you’ll get yourself and us in trouble. Don’t even try to jump to Tamlin’s defense if you think he needs it,” His last direction was more direct, harsh, “They could kill you if they want. Or use you against Tamlin.”

Shit. What kind of trouble was Tamlin in if—

“Feyre, are you sure you want to do this?” Lucien asked again, his voice soft, gentle. “Just give Tam some time, he’ll sort everything out, we’ll all be okay again.”

Feyre shook her head and gestured for him to walk on. She was not backing out. Tamlin needed her. So, the two of them ventured down the street from Tamlin and Feyre’s apartment.

Tamlin being one of the richest men in Prythian, wanted as much protection as possible for Feyre, and refused to live anywhere near the more common dark, dingy areas. This came to be a disadvantage for him, seeing as the main location of the group—one of many in that country—that Tamlin was the leader of was in the further end of the country, where most of the criminals and rotten things resided. Feyre had pointed this out multiple times, but Tamlin refused to relocate. He simply wouldn’t let her out.

Tamlin had even insisted, when Feyre had wanted to start working, that his earnings were more than enough to take care of them. But an income was not Feyre’s greatest concern, it was freedom. She didn’t like to admit it, but she had sometimes bickered with herself about how her life with Tamlin, as much as she loved him, felt… caged, restrictive. She wanted to get out. If he wouldn’t let her explore the country, at least let her get a job where the small commute would be an outing enough.

This was one of the glorious favours Lucien had done for Feyre. It had cost him something, which he refused to admit to Feyre, no matter how earnestly she asked him, but within a week of Feyre asking Lucien for help, he had managed to convince Tamlin to let Feyre start working. While convincing had helped, Tamlin had gone with Feyre to all her trips scouting for a job, doing a full analysis of each area, its people, the possible threats that Feyre would be vulnerable to—down to every last discarded piece of trash on the floor that could potentially hurt her somehow.

He treated her like a porcelain doll, and perhaps her muteness added to that image, but Feyre knew she was not that weak or dependent on him. They had gotten into multiple fights over the subject, which always ended in a compromise from both their ends (which would gradually turn more in favour of Tamlin than Feyre), and a full night of them making love.

However, at least Tamlin had been giving her a good amount of freedom to go to work five times a week, or whenever he wasn’t home. Ironically enough, for an illiterate girl, Feyre had chosen to work in a bookshop. She had hoped it would have helped her reading skills, but it had made not much of a difference except her being able to match alphabets and therefore keeping the store organised. She felt too ashamed of her disability, on top of her inability to speak, to ever ask her employer—a firm, kind lady named Alis—to help her out.

Besides, Tamlin and Lucien had been considerate enough to learn sign gestures so Feyre could communicate with them.

“We’re almost there, keep your head low.”

Lucien walked very close to Feyre now, enough that their arms brushed against each other as they moved. Feyre hadn’t even noticed how far away from home they had gotten, or how incredibly unfamiliar and… unwelcoming… the area seemed. Worn out buildings made of stone and wood, tiny stalls open here and there selling items Feyre knew were far from legal, each dark alley leading to an even darker one, and unpleasant noises of people yelling, and strange animalistic snarls from every corner. Feyre had to make an effort not to bump into people in the crowded area, feeling like a single, slight touch would begin a fight over what she believed was to be the typical crowd’s high ego and self-righteousness.

“When we get inside, you’ll find a really long cave. Tamlin’s in the throne room right in the heart of the area. I'm going to distract whoever's at the door, and you need to get inside and hide and wait. And then you follow us while we walk, but, again, Feyre, be as quiet as possible, and keep a distance. You'll find a very narrow opening next to the doors of the throne room and I think you're small enough to get through. It may smell a bit,” Lucien threw a little smirk at Feyre, making her roll her eyes. “It's basically there because of the pillars lining the walls, so you'll have enough cover there. Stay there until Tam and I leave the room and follow us.”

Feyre nodded in response and continued walking, until Lucien tugged on her sleeve, turning to his right and leading her through a narrow, dark alley that smelled like sewers and piss, which immediately had Feyre feeling the urge to vomit, until they reached a set of high wooden doors at the end, which really didn't look like they belonged, squished in between what seemed to be a large opening in stone. Raising a large fist, Lucien knocked on the door in a rhythm that made it clear to Feyre that the place required a patterned pass-knock.

“Stand aside,” Lucien ordered quickly, his voice hushed, and Feyre immediately pressed herself against the stone wall to her right, the darkness and her size both concealing her from whoever would open the doors.

A few seconds later, a peeping window opened in the middle of the left door, right in front of Lucien’s face, too high an angle for Feyre to see properly.

“Lucien of the Spring Court,” Lucien spoke, his chin raised, looking directly at the person behind the window.

“Your master’s already in,” replied a snakelike voice, almost physically chilling Feyre. She had to fight not to cringe at the word _master_. She didn’t like to think of Lucien and Tamlin’s relationship like that, though generally that was the relationship between the leader of one of the Seven Courts and his subordinates should be like. Lucien was her friend, and Tamlin’s too; perhaps his best friend. She liked to see them more as partners, with Tam still having more power, than as a master and his servant.

“I’m here with the debts. My _master_ ,” Feyre detected discomfort in Lucien’s voice, “Arrived early to attend a meeting with your mistress.” Feyre’s curiosity spiked during the few seconds of silence, during which the man behind the door must have been considering Lucien’s words.

The man cleared his throat. “Very well,” He said, and Lucien and Feyre stood, waiting, listening to the sounds of numerous locks being undone, until the large doors swung open inwards. A tall, thin man stood at the entrance, his body almost corpselike, a skeletal, bony hand gripping the door handle.

“Attor,” Lucien said, stepping inside, completely blocking the man—Attor—from Feyre’s view. “You look positively dead,” He remarked, and Feyre noticed Lucien’s hands behind his back, gesturing for her to move, to get inside.

She took the opportunity to do so, sliding past Lucien and being as quiet as possible as she became exposed to almost full darkness, and pressed herself into a deep alcove to her left. She watched as Attor snarled at her friend, before the two men made their way down the dimly lit cave. Feyre waited, counting down ten seconds, until she followed suit. She had to make sure to be extra careful in being silent, because the slightest touch of her foot on the stone floor sent off an echo. The entire place felt cold, damp… Dead, like Attor. It reeked of the same nasty smell as the alley outside.

In the near distance, she heard the sounds of two doors open, and once she turned around a bend in the hall, she saw Lucien and Attor disappear behind a pair of enormous, ancient doors. In the dim firelight, Feyre noticed the rounded sides of two pillars, each with different etchings of figures and images that possibly told stories, on either end of the doors, with just enough gaps between them for Feyre to wiggle through.

Approaching it, checking her body to make sure she carried nothing that could make any noise against the stone, Feyre squeezed her body in between the pillar and the pale stone frame of the door, holding her breath, until she made it through to the other end, dropping to a crouch behind a wrought iron fence that seemed to run around the perimeter of the room.

The throne room ahead was massive, a dead, gothic chamber. Empty. Unwelcoming, despite the numerous crystal chandeliers that hung between the pillars, providing light to the entire room, illuminating the blood red floor. In the far end, on a dais, seated in a black, high-backed chair, was an elegant looking woman, her skin pale—almost white against the darkness of the room—and her hair a gorgeous shade of red. Her ruby lips were pulled back in a smirk, one that seemed menacing, deceiving... and her hungry, dark eyes were focused, Feyre realised, on Tamlin.

Feyre’s lover stood in the middle of the room with his back turned to her, directly across the woman, with two men dressed in coats and carrying weapons on either side of him, twinning the two guards standing on the two sides of the woman’s throne. Glancing to the right, Feyre noticed Attor walking towards the dais, Lucien at his heel.

The entire atmosphere in the room was tense, chilled.

“Ah, Lucien,” the woman greeted flirtatiously, her voice as smooth as honey, as her gaze shifted from Tamlin to Lucien, who had now come to stand next to his leader. “Finally here with my pay,” the woman chirped giddily as Lucien reached into his coat and pulled out a large, thick package. He passed it to the guard next to him in silence, who walked up towards the throne, passing the package to the woman.

She held the package out with her hand, towards her right. “Check the contents, will you, my pet?” She spoke, and that was when Feyre noticed the man sitting next to her.

His very presence, from such a distance, stirred Feyre. He radiated calm, powerful, intense darkness. Dressed in all black, one arm lifting from where it was draped over his knee where he sat on the step of the dais, his white, elegant hands were working at the package, undoing the wrappings. His face… was the most beautiful face she had ever seen; everything in gorgeous proportions, prominent cheekbones, hair as dark as the clothes he wore. Feyre felt mesmerised by this man’s beauty; so much that, she would have almost forgotten paying attention to the rest of what happened in the strange place.

The man looked bored as he counted through the rolls of coins that Lucien had brought in. Sighing, he looked at the woman next to him, and then to Tamlin and Lucien. “This isn’t the full amount,” He said, his voice, like a sensual purr, swaying Feyre even more.

“The hell it isn’t—” Lucien started, but Tamlin raised a hand to silence him. The Woman had a playful frown on her face as she looked at Tamlin.

“Tamlin,” She seemed to almost whine like a little girl, “I trusted you, _Tamlin_ ," She mewled his name, "You know the deal.”

Feyre could see how tense Tamlin had gotten. “Amarantha,” He started, “This is the rest I owed, the final amount my family owed to you.”

Instead of responding, the woman—Amarantha—turned to the man next to her and a short, hushed conversation ensued. Seconds later, she turned back to Tamlin. “It seems you’re off by a great amount.”

“That’s not possible—”

“The prices have risen in Prythian over the past year.” Amarantha’s voice rose. “And, let us not forget the other favour you had called in just three months ago.” Her grin spread, making her look beautifully evil.

Tamlin’s back straightened, and Feyre wanted so much to reach out and comfort him. “You said that was free of charge.”

Amarantha’s laugh echoed through the room. “Oh, I never did _say_ it.”

A moment of silence ensued, probably during which Tamlin was trying to clear his confusion, until Lucien spoke, his voice rattled, “She lied, the bitch—”

“Language, please, Lucien,” Amarantha interjected, straightening her back. “When dear Tamlin came to me to help that little _whore_ Ianthe pay off her debts to the Lady of the Brothel, I, of course, being the generous person I am,” Lucien snorted at the statement, “Decided to pay her rather large debts… Which, it seems, hasn’t taught her to stop living beyond her means even now.”

“You told me you would do it _free_ of charge,” Tamlin growled.

Amarantha’s smile grew even more wicked. “Well, yes, because you came to me, like a pathetic little lovesick fool”—Feyre frowned; _lovesick for someone else?_ She noticed Lucien cast a glance back in her direction, a frown on his scarred face—“To help a whore you had become infatuated with. Feeling pity, of course I had to offer my services.”

Feyre felt anger inside herself, growing towards Amarantha, Tamlin, Lucien—Tamlin visiting a woman from a brothel while Feyre herself was right there, at home, waiting for him at his every beck and call. She felt… hurt. And stupid; yet she had come, put herself in possible danger, all for him.

“However,” Amarantha drawled, “You lied to me, Tamlin.” Her voice was now once again of a teasing tone.

Tamlin had gone completely still.

“Did you think I’m a fool?” Amarantha questioned, amusement in her voice. Lucien’s single russet eye was wild as he stole another glance back in Feyre’s direction—something was wrong. “I sent some people to do some research before I gave away so much money to save a random whore. And what... or who... I found was rather… Delightful.

“Funnily enough, this delightful little creature I’m speaking of has decided to honour us with her presence today.”

Lucien swore. Tamlin whirled around, his head whipping in every direction, looking for something—looking for Feyre. She panicked, shifting back in the small space had, hurriedly trying to squeeze through the pillar to her right, but it was too late, because within a split second, Attor stood right in front of her, a wicket grin set in his evil face.

She wanted to scream, from the sudden fright she got from Attor's ugliness, from the danger she was in, but her voice failed her once again. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as Attor reached out and his claw-like fingernails dug into the flesh of her arms, piercing her skin, drawing blood; and she weakened with the pain, making it easier for Attor to drag her out, over the iron fence which scraped against her calf, ripping her pant leg, into the vast room where Amarantha was waiting, laughing.

She heard her name repeatedly being cried out by Tamlin, who, as Feyre observed, along with Lucien, was now being held by two large guards each. Lucien looked upset, casting an apologetic look towards her, while Tamlin’s face was red hot with rage.

“ _Let her go!_ ” Tamlin roared as Attor dragged Feyre, blood trailing down her arms, towards Amarantha.

Amarantha chuckled. “Let her go, Attor. If you’re smart enough, little one, you won’t move.”

Feyre _was_ smart enough, and when she was pushed down to her knees in front of Amarantha’s throne, she decided not to move. Instead, she looked up, blinking away tears from the pain, at the woman causing her lover so much trouble, who had an amused, almost warm, smile on her face, and then at the man—the beautiful man—who was now staring at her, the only one in the room looking perplexed. His head inclined to the side, as if inspecting Feyre, and in that moment she felt more self-conscious than ever. Forcing herself to tear her gaze away, she locked eyes with Tamlin, who looked confused, hurt… angry.

“Tamlin, as it turns out, lied to me about his ties to the whore,” Amarantha mused, “in fact, really, he has been hiding this—Feyre was it?—in a little apartment by the borders of Prythian. Now, what would _she_ think of you having relations with a whore, dear Tamlin?”

But Tamlin wasn’t paying attention to Amarantha’s quips, he was instead staring at Feyre, green eyes blazing, chest moving rapidly with his breathing. “ _What are you doing here_?” He asked, his voice booming—angry... at her.

Feyre frowned. “Tam, she was only trying to help—” Lucien started, and Tamlin whipped his head to him, golden hair flying.

“ _You_ brought her here?” Tamlin roared, glaring at Lucien, making Feyre cringe, while Lucien looked away.

She realised the how much trouble she had gotten her friend into, and mouthed _I’m sorry_ to him, but Lucien’s head was bowed, red hair cascading over his face.

“I’m sure the girl can speak for herself,” the Beautiful Man interjected, still sounding bored, his voice still sending a sensual chill down Feyre’s spine. She looked up at him and he met her gaze, offering a playful smirk.

“Rhysand,” Lucien sneered, whipping his head up to look at the man.

Tamlin was frowning. “She can’t,” He said, his voice softer, “She’s mute.” Feyre tried not to be offended by the comment. It _was_ a fact, but he made it sound like her disability made her weak.

“Interesting,” mused Amarantha, “I didn’t think you would be one for the silent type, Tamlin. I always thought of you being loud… Rough.” Bile rose in Feyre’s throat in disgust as she noticed Amarantha lightly grind herself against her throne.

“I think you have your _whore_ right there to do that work for you, Amarantha,” Lucien spat, nodding his head towards the man—Rhysand, whose gaze seemed to be focused on flicking away an invisible speck of dust on his sleeve, “So you can stop targeting Tamlin like a desperate, pathetic bitch.”

Tamlin didn’t stop Lucien from speaking this time, and Feyre felt proud of Lucien for stepping up for his friend.

“Very well,” Amarantha snapped, the smile disappearing from her face, “Straight to business we go then. You lied to me and haven’t given me my full pay, even though your family has been indebted to me for three years now, Tamlin, while it was promised to be only a matter of months. And now, on top of that, your little creature has decided to intrude into _my_  mountain, I’ve decided on something that will definitely motivate you to give me my money back… Or, of course, our _alternative_ still stands.” The blood-red smile on her face grew once again.

Tamlin growled. “Let. Feyre. Go.”

Amarantha chuckled. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. Feyre here will remain here, as my prisoner, until you return my money to me,” She chimed, and Feyre’s stomach dropped. “She may even make herself useful by doing some chores. With the sudden inflation in Prythian, the brothel prices have jumped too high for my poor guards to enjoy... Maybe your Feyre can offer her services instead.” Amarantha’s grin was wicked, and Feyre wanted to slice it off her face.

Lucien snarled, Tamlin’s growl grew louder.

“If you refuse, Tamlin, or cause a fight here, Attor is more than ready to put his claws through the girl's heart.”

A chill ran down Feyre’s spine, and she felt Attor’s presence right against her back, a bony finger making its way up her shoulderblade. Even if Tamlin tried... There would be no way for them to get out without at least one of the three of them dead.

“Tam, we can get the money—” Lucien started.

“ _I am not leaving her here_ ,” Tamlin was livid, his hands balled to fists.

“Either she stays or she dies, unfortunately,” Amarantha said casually.

 _Look at me. Look at me._ Feyre silently requested Tamlin. And somehow, he did, looking pained, and Feyre took the opportunity to mouth, _go_.

The whole room remained quiet, colder, more tense, as Tamlin held Feyre’s gaze, his expression torn. Feyre nodded to him. _Go_.

“Tamlin, let's go,” Lucien spoke, his voice soft, comforting.

Sighing, in pain, Tamlin looked up towards Amarantha. “Let me say goodbye,” He said, his voice hushed, hurt. Surprisingly, Amarantha nodded towards the guards holding Tamlin. Shrugging them off, he made his way across the stone floor to Feyre, footsteps echoing. As soon as she held her arms out to him, he grabbed her, pulling her up onto her feet and crushing her against his body.

Feyre could feel Tamlin’s heart racing as she wrapped her arms around his torso, pressing her face against his neck, taking in his smell, his feeling. “I’ll come back, I’ll get you out. I promise,” He whispered into her hair. Feyre nodded, rubbing circles against his back. “I love you,” Tamlin mumbled, and Feyre pressed a kiss to his shoulder in response. Pulling back, Tamlin’s lips found her own, and Feyre tried to push every apology, every feeling of love, into that sweet kiss. His grip on her waist tightened, as if readying to run away with her in his arms immediately. In alarm, Feyre’s eyes opened, and she was met with a pair of piercing violet eyes ahead of her—Rhysand, still watching her, still with a curious, solemn look on his beautiful face.

Amarantha must have realised Tamlin’s intentions too, because she gestured to the two guards previously holding Tamlin, and Feyre’s lover was forcefully pulled away from her. Tamlin let out another growl, but obliged, and turned his head to cast a glare at Amarantha. “If anybody touches her,” He warned, “I’ll kill them.”

Amarantha giggled, and then motioned towards her guards once again, and Feyre could do nothing but watch as Tamlin and Lucien were escorted out of the room.

“Well,” Amarantha started once they were gone, “What do you suggest we do with our new guest?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys and Feyre get acquainted. Rhys is more ACOMAF than ACOTAR in my story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need a really good beta editor/reader!! Please let me know if you're willing to work with me.

Feyre’s living quarters for the next few days—weeks?—months?—was a tiny cell in a dungeon, with no bed, no chair, just a pile of dirt and hay in the corner. The place smelled as awful as the rest of Amarantha’s Court did. It was just as cold, too.

In fact, Feyre was freezing, and she had nothing to help her warm up.

On top of that, she was served _dinner_ on a tiny, dented, metal plate, and she didn’t know if she could consider what she received as food.

She had asked (well, motioned, with great difficulty) the guard who had brought her, her meal, what she was to do if she required to use the urinal, and the gruff man just grunted and pointed towards the pile of hay in the corner of Feyre’s cell. When asked about water for bathing, he barked at her to shut up before he hit her for asking too many questions. And then the man left, leaving Feyre alone as the sole prisoner in the entire dungeon. She didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

 _Lady Amarantha_ had given everyone permission to do whatever they liked with Feyre.

Feyre knew what _whatever they liked_ meant. She kept in mind she was there for Tamlin, for _her_ Tamlin. She knew any wrong move could potentially get Tamlin in further trouble than he was already in, but she wouldn’t let Amarantha’s men abuse her, use her body for their pleasure, hit her, without her fighting back. Until the day Tamlin and Lucien came back to take her home, Feyre would fight.

And that was exactly what she had done that evening when two of Amarantha’s guards entered Feyre’s cell, slick smirks on their ugly faces. She was ready for when one of them reached out a grubby hand to her, ducking under his arm and jumping to the other end of the room. The man tripped forward and grunted, turning his head to her.

“Now, now, little lady. I’m going to make you finally scream.”

As he charged for her once again, Feyre made a run for the iron door of the cell, hoping the guards had left it open when they entered. She grabbed the metal bars and tugged, the rust scratching the skin of her palms, her breathing ragged. The doors rattled with each pull. _Open open open._

Locked.

Feyre had barely any time to take in a breath before she was grabbed by the waist and hurled towards the end of the cell, falling against the dirt and hay lying on the floor, her head smacking against the stone wall. A silent scream escaped her, and her vision reddened, the place of impact at the back of her head throbbing with pain. She didn’t get a chance to check for any bleeding when a hand gripped her by her long hair, pulling her up to her knees, adding to the pain in her head. Feyre would have screamed if she could.

She thrashed against the pair of hands trying to pin her down, while the other man slid a knife through the bottom of her tunic and sliced it in half, easily bearing the kicks she continuously aimed at his stomach and thighs.

Tears streaked down her cheeks, and Feyre felt pathetic to be crying, to be showing any form of weakness to these brutes, but she knew the tears were more reflective of her memories, of _the incident_ , than of the way she was being handled in that moment.

She struggled against the first man still as she felt the calloused hand of the second cup her breast, a dark laugh, accompanied by a horrible breath, echoing through the room—

First came sound of the cell gate being slammed open, then came one of the men speaking, alarmed: “Lord—” but he never got to finish his speech, because within a split second both men were yanked off Feyre, and as soon as she processed what was going on, she scrambled to a sitting position, backing up against the corner of the cell, against the dirt, and curling up, trying to tug her tunic to cover her chest.

All she did was sit there and let silent tears fall, feeling weak, pathetic, vulnerable, as she watched her savior—

 _Rhysand_. It was Rhysand, throwing kicks and punches towards Feyre’s attackers, throwing both of them against the stone wall, possibly much harder than Feyre herself had collided with it a moment earlier, until one of the men collapsed onto the floor completely, knocked out, while the second slumped against the wall, head bowed.

The only sounds in the dungeon were the echo of dripping water and Rhysand’s deep, ragged breathing. Even from the dim firelight outside, Feyre could see the rage reflected in his beautiful features as he eyed the two guards.

“How _dare_ you,” He growled, his knee suddenly coming up and colliding with the chin of the still-conscious man, throwing his head back, letting it smack once again against the wall.

Groaning, the man spluttered, “L-Lady Amarantha… She said we have full... permission to do anything, sir.” Feyre could tell he was on the brink of unconsciousness.

_Good._

“ _I don’t give a damn what your Lady says_ ,” Rhysand bellowed, and his voice echoed loudly through the dungeons, almost enough to make Feyre herself cower. “No one gets to touch her. You even look at her in any funny sort of way, I’ll give you more than just a few bruises and broken bones. Do you understand?”

The man nodded curtly.

“ _Do you understand_?” Rhysand repeated, louder.

“Y-yes sir,” The man replied.

“Good,” Rhysand’s voice was back to its casual tone, “Now get out of here. And take _him_ ,” he nodded at the unconscious man, “With you.”

Despite being clearly extremely weak, Feyre’s attacker scrambled to his feet, letting out gruff sounds of pain as he grabbed his partner by the arms and tugged him, with great force, out of the cell. Both Feyre and Rhysand watched as they exited through the main doors of the dungeon.

Feyre had stopped crying, but the two of them were still panting.

She didn’t know what to do as the enchanting man ahead turned to face her, his expression once again unreadable. She backed up further against the cool wall behind her as Rhysand advanced, crouching right in front of her, an arm on his knee.

“Calm down,” He spoke softly as Feyre squirmed out of discomfort of how close a proximity he was to her, “I’m just trying to see how bad they hurt you.”

It wasn’t just his words, but also that smooth, carnal tone in his voice that helped calm Feyre down, trust him for at least that moment. She had even forgotten she was half naked, getting drunk on his presence, as he brought up a hand to touch her cheek. Even with the gentle brush of his fingertips, Feyre couldn’t help but wince, and she knew immediately that a bruise was forming there.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Rhysand asked, his breath, minty, brushing against her face. Staring into his beautiful, intriguing violet eyes, Feyre nodded gingerly, raising a shaking hand to the back of her head, only lightly touching the lump that had formed there, beneath her hair.

She watched as Rhys frowned and took his time to analyse her body, holding her wrist in his careful hand, turning her slightly according to his needs. “You’re coming to my quarters,” He whispered, looking Feyre in the eyes, “I’ll fix you up as much as possible.”

Despite being in some sort of allegiance—perhaps assistant, lieutenant—with an evil woman, Rhysand emitted trustworthiness—a sentiment, Feyre believed, she would regret feeling at some point, but she nodded anyway, realising he was probably the only person in that entire place who would help her in any way.

“Can you stand?” Rhysand’s voice was hushed. He slowly stood up straight, holding Feyre gently by one arm, helping her get to her feet. Feyre was highly conscious of the fact that with her hands no longer holding her tunic together, her breasts were completely exposed… but she didn’t care; not when she had been experiencing hell, not when her breasts being shown to Rhysand, a man Tamlin and Lucien didn’t seem to like, was the least of her worries.

 

* * *

 

 

It had taken numerous flights of stairs, corridors and doors to get to Rhysand’s quarters. He had apologised on the way, saying he was taking a longer route in order to sneak her to his room undetected—if Amarantha found out, they would be in great trouble.

His room must have been at least on the tenth storey—Feyre had lost count of the staircases—because by the time they had reached his floor, Feyre’s feet were aching. Rhysand walked with her, his hand still on her arm, gentle, until they reached a set of massive oak doors at the end of an empty hallway. Reaching into his dark tunic, Rhysand pulled out a set of iron keys, unlocking the doors and pushing them open, gesturing with his hand for Feyre to step in.

As soon as she did, the warmth emitting from the fireplace to the left of the room took away at least a little of her pain. As Rhysand stepped in behind her, busy locking the doors, she took in the expanse of his room— it was windowless, with a vast, gothic, dark bed right in the middle, neatly made, as if Rhys never slept here, full of numerous pillows; a set of doors to her right a few feet away, where, possibly, the bathroom was; and to her left, a large sitting area, full of sofas that matched Rhysand’s bed, around his fireplace.

It was cosy… Yet, it lacked personality. Feyre couldn’t figure out a single thing about Rhysand from his room.

“Go ahead and sit down,” Rhysand spoke from right behind her, his voice still hushed, as if he still needed to assure her she was okay.

She felt grateful that he was doing so, though; she did need to be assured.

Nodding to him, Feyre made her way across the span of the room, taking a seat on the sofa nearest to the fire, immediately feeling awful for dirtying the velvet material with the grime on her body. While taking in as much warmth as possible, she watched Rhysand through a curtain of her golden-brown hair, opening various cabinets, taking out several items; walking into his bathroom and returning with a bowl of water; rummaging through what seemed to be a large, dark wardrobe. She felt her face heat up in embarrassment when Rhysand finally turned to her and caught her eye, and she looked away, toward the fire.

It reminded her of Lucien. Of the colour of his hair, his good eye, of the scar that ran down from his brow to his chin. She realised how much she missed her friend then, after only hours of seeing him last. She hoped Tamlin didn’t punish him too harshly for what had happened. It was… it was Feyre’s fault, not Lucien’s.

Feyre became aware of Rhysand’s nearness as soon as he sat down on the couch next to her. Slowly, she turned her head to look at him. He had a hint of a frown on his face, black hair coming down over his forehead, almost concealing his eyes. “I’m just going to clean you up,” He said, “And then you can change into some clothes—they will be too big for you, I’m sorry, I have nothing else—and then you can hold some ice to the bump at the back of your head.” In her dazed state, Feyre almost swooned at the sound of his voice—immediately feeling horrible… _Tamlin_.

Clearing her head, Feyre nodded slowly, and watched as Rhysand’s gaze fell from her eyes to her cheek, his hand bringing a damp cloth to the place where she was bruised. Feyre winced at the contact, and Rhysand whispered an apology, making his touch _even_ lighter. As he worked on cleaning her face, Feyre studied his own; an elegant nose, sharp cheekbones, smooth, pale skin… his features were somewhere between an incredibly handsome boy and a stunning man.

Rhysand looked like moonlight in the middle of dark night, and Feyre’s hands immediately itched for the set of brushes and paint she hadn’t touched in over a year—the set she had left behind.

“By the way,” Rhysand whispered, now working on cleaning her hands, “My name is Rhysand, but, please, call me Rhys.” His gaze flicked up to hers for just a split second, and then back to their hands. Feyre nodded, trying hard not to be too caught up in the feeling of Rhys’ hands touching hers—so sensually, so delicately. “And, as I recall from this afternoon, you’re Feyre.” He looked up once more and offered a small smile, one that seemed to make him more beautiful than he already was. Feyre tried to return it, but just a little movement of her cheeks caused her pain. Instead, she simply nodded, and hoped her eyes showed gratitude enough.

That was when the handle of Rhys’ room door rattled—someone trying to open it from outside. Both Feyre and Rhys whipped their heads towards the door, the action causing Feyre a slight head rush, and Rhys swore quietly—as soon as “ _Oh Rhysand_ ” came from outside… Amarantha.

Rhys rushed to his feet, quickly grabbing the bowl, clothes, and other materials and shoving them in Feyre’s arms. “I’m so sorry,” He whispered earnestly, looking her in the eyes. And Feyre believed him. “She can’t know you’re here—please, can you hide in the bathing room?” He sounded desperate, and Feyre nodded, getting up, carrying the things he had handed her, while Rhys mumbled another quick apology, before she rushed into the bathing room, shutting the door quietly.

As soon as Feyre set the items down on the floor, she heard Amarantha’s voice—“ _Oh Rhysand_ ”—her tone desperate, exasperated. If she were in the right state of mind, Feyre would have rolled her eyes.

“Amarantha,” was all Rhys had said before dead silence fell over the room. Seconds later, Feyre heard sounds of moans—a female’s—and she wanted so desperately to be deaf on top of mute. Sounds of thuds came, possibly the two of them falling onto Rhys’ bed, and Feyre tried so hard not to pay attention. It felt so… intrusive.

Although there was no reason to feel bad to be invading Amarantha’s privacy, Feyre felt awful for having to do so for Rhys… He seemed too different from Amarantha, too kind, to be in allegiance with her.

 _Whore_ , Lucien had called Rhys. Feyre had thought, at the moment, that perhaps it was just a general insult that he had thrown towards Rhys. But, it turned out, it was true. If he really was Amarantha’s whore, then… _Why_?

She wondered, for a second, if Rhys wanted from Feyre exactly what those two guards who had assaulted her had wanted.

And immediately, Feyre hated herself. She hated herself for being so easily persuaded by a man who was clearly hated by the man she loved. She hated herself for the few moments she felt… captivated, enchanted, intrigued… almost _erotic_ feelings towards this man whom she barely knew, while Tamlin, _her_ Tamlin, was probably at home going mad to bring her back, to keep her safe.

Amarantha hadn’t let Feyre go into further contemplation, when a loud, filthy, ugly mewl echoed through the room. She tried her hardest to block out the noises, of Amarantha’s excessive fuck noises, of her repeatedly calling out _Rhysand_ , and instead focused on cleaning herself up.

Stripping herself down, Feyre picked up the wet cloth that had been in Rhys’ caring hands just minutes ago, and began to slowly, gingerly, clean herself up. She eyed the luxurious tub in the corner of the room, longing for a bath, but knowing it wouldn’t be right to do so without permission. So instead, she wiped herself as clean as possible, trying her hardest to remain quiet, before slipping on the clothes Rhys had given her. Like his current attire—or, the one from a few minutes ago—the tunic and pants he had given Feyre were completely black, laced with white string; and they were rather large on her. However, she knew this would prove as an advantage when she went back to her prison cell—the heavy material could pass off as a blanket for her. Finally, picking up the ice Rhys had acquired for her, she covered them in another piece of cloth and held them to her head, sitting down on the edge of the tub.

She didn’t know how many minutes had passed that she had been there, because when she realised once again that there were two people _fucking_ right outside the door she was concealed behind, she noticed that the room was heavy with silence. Still, she didn’t dare step out unless Rhys told her to do so.

A few minutes, she believed, passed on, until she heard the bedroom door shut, and a few seconds later, Rhysand’s voice—soft, solemn, more so than when he had been taking care of her, saying, “You can come out now, Feyre.”

Feeling uncomfortable, anxious about her encounter with post-sex Rhys—with any man, in fact, the situation would have been strange—Feyre got to her feet, opening the bathroom door and stepping out into the room.

The sight she beheld was both glorious and heartbreaking.

Rhys was there, naked, in the middle of his bed on his knees, his head bowed, the ebony sheets draping over his thighs. Feyre took in his numerous tattoos: strange, intricate, black lines and swirls decorating his arms and his broad chest; two identical tattoos of three stars on top of mountains on both his knees, which had sparked Feyre's ever growing curiosity. He radiated an ethereal sort of beauty; like a perfect sculpture. As Feyre closed the bathroom door behind her, the noise enough to represent her presence, Rhys still didn’t look up.

It was only when Feyre took a bold few steps towards him, ignoring the fact that he was completely nude, that she noticed his face. His gorgeous features reflected so much pain, so much sadness, that she felt her heart ache for the stranger she had acquainted herself with.

Amarantha’s _whore_ wasn’t really her whore… There was something that drove Rhys to serve her, to give his body up to her, to give up such an intimate, precious part of himself to that _bitch_.

She wanted to speak his name, to say _something_ to make him feel better, but her voice, for the umpteenth time, failed her. Instead, she moved closer to Rhys’ bed, and reached a hand out to his unmoving figure, placing a hand on his shoulder—and then immediately moving away. Not for Tamlin, but because Rhys was a man who sacrificed his body who knew how frequently; physical touches would probably make him more uncomfortable.

But it made Rhys look up, towards Feyre, and she saw the hurt in his eyes when they met hers. A frown appeared on his face. “I’m sorry you had to hear that,” His voice was a whisper, almost inaudible. Feyre shook her head slowly, and when Rhys pulled back the dark sheets of his bed—to make a clean, Amarantha-free space for Feyre—she sat down. Looking him straight in his brilliant, glassy eyes, Feyre raised her hands and signed, _I understand_. Rhysand needed a friend, at least for that moment.

Rhys’ eyebrows came together and he frowned, watching her hands, and Feyre realised her mistake. “I’m sorry,” Rhys said again, sounding incredibly sincere, “I don’t know how to interpret those.” He reached out, grabbing her hands in his large ones, making Feyre’s insides heat with the feeling. “Can you write to me instead?” He asked.

Feyre’s heart broke, realising there was no way for her to speak to him. Pulling her hands free from his, she tried her hardest to motion—not to sign, but just to motion—that she couldn’t write. Lifting her hand, she motioned as if she were writing on paper, Rhys watching intently, and then she pointed to herself before shaking her head. Rhys’ eyes widened as he looked at her. “Y-you don’t know how to write?” He asked, surprise prominent in his tone.

Feyre shook her head.

“Can you read?”

Feyre shook her head.

The corner of Rhys’ lip rose in a sad smile. “Well, Feyre darling,” He spoke, his voice, along with that nickname, once again stirring her. “It seems,” a calloused, gentle hand rose to push a strand of her long brown hair away from the front of her face, “That we have _quite_ the communication barrier,” his tone was slightly more joyful, teasing now.

Feyre chuckled silently at his small attempt at lightening the mood, and took the opportunity to grin up at him, even through the pain that she felt in her cheek.

“How about,” Rhys offered, once again looking her in the eye, “Staring tomorrow, I help you with your reading and writing, and you can help me understand what all of your sign gestures mean?”

Feyre didn’t need to voluntarily grin this time as she nodded in agreement.

And, neither had realised in that moment, that they had both healed each other—even a little—that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow/contact me at http://polarisirwins.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre gets a history lesson/Lucien and Feyre have the best relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 2 AM.  
> http://polarisirwins.tumblr.com

Feyre hadn’t realised that it had been a week since she had been left as Amarantha’s prisoner until she was being escorted out of her prison cell by two guards to meet her “visitor.” Her arms being gripped much too tightly by both guards, she was almost dragged two floors above the dungeon, through dozens of identical, dingy hallways, as people watched and whispered about her, about Tamlin, amongst each other, until she was shoved into a tiny, stone “meeting room.”

Even with barely enough light coming from the pathetic crack in the left wall posing as an excuse for a window, Lucien’s long, red hair was prominent—like a wild flame. He stood up as soon as Feyre had entered the room, on the opposite end of a worn out wooden table, and made his way across the floor and enveloped her in a tight hug so quickly that Feyre hadn’t even had the time to sign _hi_ at him.

“Feyre,” Lucien spoke into her knotted, dirty hair as he held her, and Feyre’s heart shattered, her arms flying up to wrap around Lucien’s broad torso; she hadn’t realised how much she missed her friend until that moment. Resting her head against his shoulder, she soaked in the feeling of home that radiated from him, of being loved and cared for; of having her best friend around to make snarky remarks regarding almost everything she did, making funny faces at her when Tamlin wasn’t looking, of much needed hugs—for both of them—when Tamlin wasn’t around to see and become his usual territorial self.

Feyre had been so happy seeing Lucien that she hadn’t even processed Tamlin’s absence. _You’ve been granted visits once a week, now_ , Rhys had said the previous night during the sixth of their daily sessions of mutual tutoring. _So I expect_ he _will be here tomorrow to see you._

Feyre was robbed of opportunity to ask why Rhys had seemed to dislike Tamlin, and vice versa, when a guard showed up in Feyre’s cell to notify Rhys that Amarantha wanted him.

Feyre went to sleep thinking of the numerous ways she could kill Amarantha.

“Did they hurt you?” was Lucien’s first question when he pulled away and held Feyre by her shoulders, his eyes—the russet and metal ones both—looking directly into her own, his face full of concern. Feyre placed one of her own hands on his, shaking her head. The bruises she had gotten from her first night had almost completely disappeared anyway; she knew there was no point in angering Tamlin, since Lucien would be more than likely reporting to him afterwards.

Nodding slowly, perhaps not quite believing Feyre, Lucien let go of her and nodded to the table. “Let’s sit,” He said and made his way back to the other side of the table, while Feyre took her seat on the small, rickety chair on her end. She could analyse Lucien better now, from the distance, noticing how unusually unkempt his hair was, how his chin now held copper coloured stubble which he usually made sure to shave, how his eyes were the same kind of jittery a person got when they didn’t sleep well. Lucien had been stressing himself. Or perhaps he had been stressed upon by his leader.

Once again, Feyre made a silent prayer hoping Tamlin hadn’t punished Lucien too badly for what had happened the previous week.

And then she asked it, signing with her hands, feeling comfort in having someone around who completely understood what all her gestures meant—Rhys had been trying, but he hadn’t gotten far enough to understand her gestures; it wasn’t his fault, they didn’t get much time together in those six days. They had still struggled to have a two-way conversation.

Lucien frowned, his gaze flicking away from her; and Feyre had her answer. Reaching her own pale hand out, she placed it on top of Lucien’s larger, interlocked ones and squeezed. _I’m sorry_ , she mouthed.

A small, sad smile appeared on her friend’s face. “It’s not your fault, Feyre. Stop apologising. Tamlin, he… He had every right to be angry. I disobeyed my Lord, I got _you_ in trouble…” His eyes moved to her face again, live one slow, metal one whirring, possibly doing a quick analysis of her physical condition once more.

 _What did Tamlin do to you?_   Feyre asked, despite knowing Lucien wouldn’t tell her.

Lucien bit down on his bottom lip. “He…” He started, “Don’t worry, it wasn’t so bad. I deserved it.”

 _No you didn’t,_ was Feyre’s response, her eyes narrowing as she looked at him—fidgety, worried. She knew that, with the little time they had together, there was no point in arguing exactly whose fault that day was, so instead, she asked an obvious question: _Where is Tamlin?_

Lucien’s actions seemed to slow and he held Feyre’s gaze, looking confused, contemplative… she wasn’t sure. _Is Tamlin in trouble?_ Feyre asked immediately, fear gripping her. Who knew what Tamlin could get into, being as impulsive as he was, and with Feyre’s safety in the question…

“No, no, he’s not in trouble,” Lucien assured, shaking his head, “He’s just… busy, with work, trying to get you out.”

Feyre could tell it was a lie; Lucien’s expressions, his body language, for Feyre at least, were completely transparent. However, she didn’t press on, because any topic that involved _Tamlin_ and _secrets_ shoved just one word—one name—into her mind: _Ianthe_.

But she didn’t have the courage to ask her friend about the extent of truth behind that story.

“How about you, Feyre?” Lucien asked, “Are you okay? How… Is it too horrible?” The earnest tone in his voice nearly broke her heart.

 _Am I okay?_ Feyre wondered. Right after Lucien and Tamlin had left her, she would have said no, and would have said yes, this place was too horrible. But… Feyre felt her insides heat up for the umpteenth time as soon as the image of bright violet eyes, dark hair, and pale skin—a man of moonlight in the dark sky, as Feyre had once observed—popped into her head.

So she answered truthfully; Lucien was her friend, she trusted him with her life. _I wasn’t okay_ , she signed, _but I was never afraid. And... this place is horrible, it’s cruel, Amarantha’s a bitch who I thankfully haven’t seen since last week._ Lucien had a deep, disturbed frown on his face. _But_ , Feyre continued, _I met Rhys, and he’s… He’s my friend; he’s making it better._

Feyre was prepared for the look of utter shock that had appeared on Lucien’s face. “Rhys is _not_ your friend, Feyre,” Lucien spoke, his tone slightly rough, his eyes wide, metal one whirring. “If he’s being kind to you—there’s another motive.”

 _He is the only person who’s been helping me here_ , Feyre replied, feeling her temper flare a little: Tamlin was the restrictive one, not Lucien.   _He is the only one who has told me the truth about Prythian, the truth that even you hid from me, Lucien. He told me about the Seven Courts' names, about magic, that everything Tamlin said about Prythian being a horrible country full of criminals was a lie._ _He healed me when I got hurt by almost getting_ raped _by two of that bitch’s men_.

All Lucien did was stare as soon as Feyre had made her confession. She saw him scan her face, the parts of her body that were visible to him above the table, to check once again if she was okay; and she was, thanks to Rhys.

“Feyre,” Lucien started, his voice almost a whisper; cautious, apologetic, sincere. “I’m so sorry—I-I wish I had somehow been there for you, to protect you, I—”

 _Do_ not _tell Tamlin_ , Feyre signed, hoping her eyes expressed how incredibly serious she was.

“I promise,” replied Lucien, and Feyre knew, the way she always knew, that he was telling her the truth. She simply nodded as he reached out and grabbed her hands, before she pulled them away to ask her next question: _Why do you hate Rhys so much? What has he done to you?_

Lucien seemed to hesitate, until Feyre nudged his fist with her own, and he started speaking: “Rhysand hasn’t done anything to me in particular—don’t roll your eyes at me, it’s not a hate derived from Tamlin. Be patient.” Nodding, Feyre signed a quick apology and let him continue. “Did you know he’s the High Lord of the Night Court?” Lucien asked.

Feyre frowned. She didn’t. Then again, she hadn’t gotten the chance to ask him, not with their _communication barrier_ , as he had put it.

“See,” Lucien remarked, “Not trustworthy—he didn’t tell you one of the most important things about himself.” Feyre didn’t agree, but she didn’t argue either. “He’s the most powerful High Lord Prythian has ever seen; and, well, to everyone, except to you, it seems… He’s vindictive, cruel… He’ll go to any length to get what he wants, Feyre. He’s even killed people for it. He’s not merciful. I’ve seen it.”

Feyre couldn’t see the Rhysand that Lucien was describing to being the same Rhysand who was her friend, who she looked forward to spending each day in that stone hell hole with, who, with his words and gazes and little quips and _Feyre darling_ made her warm up inside.

But, she had known Rhys for barely six days, and in that time they had barely been able to have a conversation; while she had known Lucien for about a whole year, and Lucien was her best friend.

“Feyre, Rhysand killed Tamlin’s family.”

That was when her heart stopped. Feyre knew Lucien wouldn’t lie to her, or at least he wouldn’t lie so drastically about something as sensitive as Tamlin’s dead family. But the thought of gentle, kind Rhys…

 _Lucien, please don’t make this up, please tell me you’re lying._ She didn’t care how desperate her plea made her seem in that moment; Rhys was her friend and she had grown—even in just a few days—to care so incredibly deeply for him.

Lucien’s frown was so prominent on his gorgeous, scarred face. “I’m sorry, Feyre, but it’s true,” he deadpanned. “Rhys and Tam were really good friends, once, before I had come to know Tamlin that well—I was still under my father in the Autumn Court. This was when both their fathers were still the High Lords of Night and Spring.

“There’s always this strange sort of rivalry between Courts. And Rhys and Tamlin—though Tamlin didn’t want it—were both in practice for being future High Lords, along with Tamlin’s brothers. Anyone could tell, by the way Rhys and Tamlin worked, how they both were during combat, with their abilities and knowledge, that they were going to be incredibly powerful High Lords someday.”

Feyre could picture it: a small, boyish version of Tamlin, quiet and gentle and kind, a natural talent, good at everything he put his mind to… yet, not wanting it, as he had confessed to Feyre so many times.

He told her had fantasies of the two of them leaving Prythian together, of living together, getting married, having children, having a home. But Feyre knew, with the familial ties that Tamlin had to his role as a High Lord, with possible other ties he had to Prythian itself, that even _running_ away would never happen.

“One night, three years ago, when Tamlin and Rhys were only eighteen, Rhysand and his father had made their way to Tamlin’s family home. I don’t even know how they had gotten past all that security. They hadn’t even had the mercy to simply stab them, which would have given them quicker deaths. Instead, Rhysand and his father _cut Tamlin’s brothers into pieces_. What’s worse is that they didn’t just kill Tamlin’s father in his sleep, but his mother too—she was the only person Tamlin truly loved, Feyre, before you.”

 _He killed them, he killed them_ , Feyre kept repeating in her head, and suddenly, her body numbed with guilt, with hatred for Rhysand, with yearning for Tamlin—who she loved and missed so much.

“Tamlin had killed Rhysand’s father as soon as he realised what had happened and came out of his room,” Lucien continued, unaware of the pain for Tamlin that was now threatening to explode inside of Feyre. “And then it was just Rhys and Tamlin, and being the pathetic coward your so-called _friend_ is”—Feyre had never experienced Lucien sounding so harsh—“he fled the Spring Court. Tamlin didn’t stop him, I don’t know why, and it seems, neither does Tamlin. But they’ve hated each other since then.”

Feyre wanted to see Tamlin so bad, to hold him, kiss him, tell him she missed him, tell him she’s _sorry_.

She wanted to hurt Rhys for what he had done to the man she loved.

“And then, just under two years ago, came Amarantha, and she played all the Seven Courts of Prythian for fools, acting like our friends, helping all of us out, and within a month of her stay, she had us all wrapped around her finger: all Courts were at each other's necks, because she had managed to manipulate them, all the while taking advantage out of their distractions; she became so powerful she managed to steal all of our magic, already close to being extinct, to use it to curse us. She had brought up a “Court” of her own, and started several more bargains—she took over Prythian’s Courts, non-Court dwellers, forced most of the High Lords to live here—everything, Feyre. She… We say Prythian is led by the Seven Courts, but she’s been the real ruler; she calls herself the Queen of Prythian. And as soon as Amarantha showed her real colours, Feyre, Rhys had turned into her lap dog—it helps that he used to, or still has, the most power in all of Prythian. So you can imagine how good a pair the two of them make together, how they’ve tied us all up to this rotting chain of bargains and rivalries in Prythian. And there is no way we can get out.”

 _Bitch_ , Feyre spat the word in her head, wishing it would have been easy to kill Amarantha, to get rid of the virus in Prythian that was Amarantha.

 _Prick_ , she thought, her mind sweeping to the man just minutes ago she was ready to defend, the man who she thought was her friend. _Prick. Prick. Prick. Prick._

“Feyre, I hope you understand why Tamlin acts the way he does with you,” Lucien spoke, his warm, clammy hand squeezing hers. “He just doesn’t want to lose you, the way he lost his family, his _mother_. And seeing you with the man who did it… it would crush him.”

She did understand, or at least, she tried to, as usual… But probably more than usual.

Lucien’s voice was incredibly soft now. “A-and after the incident—your incident…” Feyre looked away, feeling small. “I’m sorry,” Lucien said, noticing her discomfort, “But ever since that day, he’s not been the same, Feyre, he feels the need to protect you. So you can imagine how much it’s killing him that you’re here—with Amarantha, and with Rhysand.”

 

* * *

 

After Lucien had left—or rather, been escorted away after Feyre’s “visiting time” had run up, she had been led back, and locked up, in her cell once again. She knew Rhysand would be arriving soon, for another session of tutoring, and in preparation, she started trying to teach herself, trying to practice writing, with the help of the books she had hid in the corner, under a dark blanket—all of which Rhys himself had lent to her.

Feyre was going to learn to read and write just so she could tell Rhysand what a pathetic prick he was and how much she wanted to claw his eyes out.

Well—she could do the latter, but seeing how Rhys had singlehandedly taken care of her attackers a week ago, and from what Lucien said, she knew it would be a hopeless attempt—one he could kill her for, apparently.

However, by the time Rhysand had arrived in the dungeon—his arrival eerily already being known to her before he had physically made it clear—Feyre hadn’t learned even half of what she needed to be able to convey her message.

“Good evening, _Feyre darling_ ,” Rhys purred, like a lover returning home.

Feyre simply shot him a glare as soon as he stepped into her cell, closing the door behind him, a much too comfortable smirk on his face.

“What’s the matter?” Rhys asked, taking a seat on the dirty, cold floor next to her, too close for her liking. She felt the same chill, the same electricity, as his arm brushed against hers, despite their tunics acting as barriers. But at the same time, with the chill, came dislike—hate, almost.

When Rhys’ careful hand reached up to brush away the curtain of her hair that separated their faces, Feyre fought the buzz she felt inside and pulled away, shifting quickly to the opposite wall, her face twisting up in disgust—more for herself than for Rhys.

Rhysand’s dark eyebrows knitted together in confusion, his eyes reflecting… hurt.

But Feyre wasn’t buying it: this act, him pretending to be kind, to being her friend—possibly just to spite Tamlin.

“Feyre?” Rhys asked, his voice low, and Feyre shot up to her feet, her body in argument with the part of it that felt seduced by the stimulating effect of his voice.

 _Prick_ , was the first word Feyre threw at him, her hands going wild as she gestured the rest. _Liar, cheat, murderer._

“Feyre, you know I don’t understand what those mean.” He was too calm, too gentle—too friendly.

But Feyre still continued. _You killed them, he was your_ friend _and you still killed his family over your sick thirst for power, and now he’s in more trouble because of your_ bitch _mistress and you feeding her your power—and you think you can lie and win me over because I’m clueless? Because I’m mute, pathetic, fragile? You may have saved me once, Rhysand, but I—_

“Feyre!” Rhys was on his feet, eyes wild. “I. Don’t. Understand.” He repeated, stepping closer to her, making Feyre step back with each advance. “What happened?”

Feyre couldn’t stop herself now. _The man I love is going through utter_ shit _because of you, and I was stupid enough to think you’re my friend, to have these feelings… the way you make me feel…I’ve been betraying Tamlin within less than a week of being here while he’s going crazy at home to get me back—_

Her hands stopped moving as soon as Rhys’ own had cupped her face, fitting her as perfect as gloves. Beautiful violet eyes stared directly into hers, just inches away, concerned, before they fluttered closed and his face leant closer. Feyre held her breath, _prick, prick, prick_ , going through her head, despite how her heartbeat quickened, despite how his scent—citrus and the sea—seemed to envelop her, overwhelm her; there was nothing she could do, she was stuck between a stone wall and Rhysand as his soft lips touched her cold skin, kissing away the tears she hadn’t realised she had released, making her body shiver, her heart beat even faster.

 _Tamlin_ , she thought, immediately bracing her hands on Rhys’ chest, feeling his rather quick heartbeat even through his thick tunic, and pushing him away; she had barely managed to move him as a result, but he pulled back voluntarily, looking hurt— _Liar_ , Feyre thought in her head. “Darling,” Rhys whispered, his hand brushing her hair away from her face, “Please,” his voice suddenly uneven, like a boy’s.

She needed him to get out, before she hated herself even more than she already did for betraying Tamlin, for falling so easily for Rhysand’s tricks. So she looked him directly in those glassy, violet eyes and mouthed the one word she knew would strike him—the one would that would have had the same effect on her: _whore_.

And Rhys must have understood from the movement of her lips: his wounded expression, the way he pulled back and stepped away from her in shock confirmed so. “Feyre,” He whispered, his voice breaking in the middle of her name.

She looked away then, and didn’t watch him leave.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amarantha gets bored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd, rushed, but it's here. I have exams, bear with me.  
> http://polarisirwins.tumblr.com/

When two guards had come to Feyre’s cell that afternoon, she was overcome with joy thinking that Lucien, and perhaps Tamlin, too, had come to see her one day early. She had become extremely lonely, doing nothing but sleeping on the cold stone floor, eating pathetic scraps they called her meals, and staring at every inch of her cell and the dungeon outside one at a time.

She was sure that she would have been able to burn the walls and her cell bars down with her eyes with the amount of staring she had done.

Rhys had stopped visiting, ever since that evening the previous week when she had called him a… She knew she shouldn’t have felt bad for it, because of how he had destroyed Tamlin, but a part of her, a treacherous part of her that nagged her all day, felt horrible for what she had said. She felt that part of herself crumble every day when she remembered his face, the hurt on his face, when she had mouthed that word, how he’d pulled away so quickly, as if her skin was poison. That part of her… It wanted nothing more to crawl to him on her hands and knees and cry and apologise.

Feyre hated that part of herself.

Without Rhys visiting, it also meant that their tutoring sessions had stopped. Feyre was neither capable nor motivated enough to teach herself how to write using the books, ink and paper he had given her when they were still friends. On top of that, looking at any of those books reminded her too much of Rhys, and it pained that treacherous part of her. So she hid them under the blanket he had given her, and never looked at them again.

But now Lucien was back, and she would try her hardest to make the most of the few moments she would be allowed to spend with him, and then later, when he was gone and she was once again lonely, she would remember their few minutes together, hopefully more cheerful than the previous week, and would draw the memory out until the next week, at which point Feyre would have strung the memory dry.

The same as last week, her arms were grabbed much too tightly by two guards she hadn’t seen before and she was practically dragged to their destination; her little steps were nothing in comparison to their large, uncompromising strides.

However, they weren’t taking the same route that Feyre had memorised to her best ability. Instead, Feyre was taken just one floor above the dungeons, the first floor aboveground—the one she and Lucien had entered together, the one she had never been able to leave through.

_Maybe Tamlin brought the money, we’re going home, we’re going home._

Feyre knew she was getting her hopes up, but she couldn’t help it, because she was now being dragged through that same hallway she had entered two weeks ago, and was being pushed through the same doors she had watched Lucien enter through with Attor.

This time, however, Lucien wasn’t present. And neither was Tamlin.

Instead, _Lady Amarantha_ was there, lounging in her stone throne, wearing a long, blue dress that had a rather generous dip at her breasts, along with a rather generous slit on her left thigh—the one, Feyre noticed, that was nearer to Rhys, whose delicate hand, the one that had healed her wounds when she had gotten harassed, the one that had pushed her hair away from her face countless times, the one that had held her face, making her heart stop at the touch, was stroking down Amarantha’s white thigh.

Feyre turned her face away immediately, feeling her eyes burn. But there was no reason to be feeling—upset? Hurt?... _Jealous_? Because Rhys was _Amarantha’s whore_. And Feyre loved Tamlin. She felt Rhys’ gaze on her, she wanted so bad to look at him, from a closer distance, to see that beautiful face that reminded her of moonlight, of those gorgeous purple eyes, but she didn’t dare do it, unsure about how her body would react.

Not in her favour, most probably. Certainly.

In avoiding looking at Rhys, Feyre’s gaze had fallen, instead, on her audience. The walls were lined with rows and rows of men and women, wearing all sorts of colours, with all sorts of hairstyles and colours, in all sorts of styles of clothing, all here to watch... watch Feyre. Watch Tamlin? She scanned the crowd, all of whom seemed to be judging her, chattering among themselves while looking at her, laughing, smiling. She couldn't find Tamlin, and felt horrible for getting her hopes up.

So instead, she turned her head, and was met with the terrifying face of Attor. He looked like a nightmare, like a corpse, bony hands thankfully behind his back; they frightened Feyre quite a bit the last time she had seen him. However, Attor’s wicked, vindictive grin as he stared her down, compensated for that fear instead.

“Ah, Feyre, finally!”

Oh, the amount of times Feyre had thought of the ways she could slice Amarantha’s throat so she would never have to hear that voice again.

“Oh, come on, Feyre, it’s courtesy for a guest to be polite to her host.”

Feyre could feel her temper flare inside her, but she still turned her head to look at Amarantha, already anticipating that horrible snakebite smile on her face. Once again, her lips were coated in the dark red colour of blood.

 _Maybe it_ is _blood_ , Feyre mused to herself.

She was glad Rhys’ hand was off Amarantha, though she still tried her hardest not to look at him, even if her body seemed so strangely drawn to him. Instead of dwelling in thoughts about Rhys in Amarantha’s presence, Feyre put on her best possible emotionless face, and looked directly at Prythian’s so called queen. Amarantha’s grin was evil as she stared Feyre down, her left leg crossing over her right, revealing her entire thigh. “Seems as if your Tamlin has forgotten you, dear,” She drawled, voice over-coated with honey.

Feyre simply kept looking at her, her face a stone mask. She refused to show any emotion to her.

Amarantha pouted. “You won’t respond? Are you not worrying about rotting in my dungeon forever while your lazy lover spends his days in brothels?”

_Do not react. Do not react. Do not react._

_Tamlin loves me. Tamlin loves me. Tamlin loves me._

Feyre continued looking at Amarantha, who finally seemed to crack. A hint of annoyance broke her haughty expression and she straightened up on her throne, looking like a real queen, but an evil one.

“Fine then,” She spoke, even her tone expressing her annoyance. She was a very weak player in this game, it seemed. “I’m bored, and I’m getting impatient, so I’m going to see how long it takes before I can break your little _whore_ voice out.”

Feyre thought she had seen Rhys start from the corner of her eye. But nothing happened. She continued to stare at Amarantha, not letting her curiosity and dread show.

“Every week until Tamlin comes back to me,” Amarantha drawled, “You will be brought here, so my guests and I”—she sounded pained to have had to say other people’s names before her own—“Can be entertained by yourself and Attor.”

 _I am not going to be her whore. I am not going to be her_ _whore_.

As if reading her mind, Amarantha laughed and said, “Not intimately, Feyre, unless you are willing to—then you can find your own privacy with Attor—but you see, Attor here has a specialty in making people scream just using his hands.” Her gaze swam to Attor, and Feyre followed with her own eyes, her heart stopping when Attor drew his hands from behind his back, stretching them out, revealing claw-like fingernails that Feyre hadn’t noticed properly earlier; fingernails that had, two weeks ago, dug into her flesh and drawn out blood so easily.

The crowd gasped, and hushed.

 _I’m going to be tortured_ , Feyre realised.

“Am—” Rhys. Feyre, before she could stop herself, turned her head as soon as he spoke and looked at the beautiful man now sitting up in alarm, from his seat next to Amarantha. For a second, Feyre thought she had seen his face reflect concern, rage, but as soon as she blinked, his face went back to that arrogant smirk that she had only seen on his face once before, when they had first seen each other.

 _You’re only imagining things_ , Feyre told herself. This was the real Rhys. But now that she had looked at him, she couldn’t tear her eyes away. He wasn’t looking at her though, rather at Amarantha, who was now ordering a guard to take off Feyre’s tunic.

“But, your Ladyship, Lord Tamlin’s warning—”

“Do I look like I _care_?!” Amarantha’s voice rose.

But Feyre, in her daze when watching Rhys, angry at him, at herself, because of the way he made her feel, jealous—though she didn’t admit to herself—of his relationship with Amarantha, freed her arms from either guards on her sides and started working at her—Rhys’—tunic, unbuttoning it slowly, not realising that she was doing it believing it would hurt Rhys, not because she wanted it over with.

Feyre still looked at Rhys, and he looked at her now. She thought for a second again, that the previous week’s Rhys was back, his face sympathetic, concerned, but then it disappeared as soon as Rhys looked at his nails, his expression— _bored_.

Fighting the pang in her heart, Feyre instead looked at Amarantha, who wore an amused look. Feyre dropped her tunic off of herself, not caring that she was exposing herself to two people she very much hated, and countless other spectators. And Rhys. How insignificant it seemed, to worry about your breasts revealed to people, when you had been through the things Feyre had.

“Well then,” was all Amarantha said as Attor crept up behind Feyre, a cold, skeletal hand grabbing her shoulder, squeezing, creating little cuts in her flesh where the tips of his nails dug in, and pushing her down to her knees. Those little cuts were like pinpricks; Feyre knew the real thing would hurt worse.

The crowed murmered.

Feyre didn’t show it to Amarantha, but her resistance broke as soon as she felt Attor’s single nail drag subtly up her spine. She had planned on looking at Rhys once again, but she found herself to be too weak, suddenly too vulnerable to look at Rhys, which would hurt her more than him.

Her eyes squeezed shut in pain as soon as Attor’s claws suddenly dug into the flesh at her back, as sharp as knives, immediately making the cuts burn with fire, with pain. Feyre was glad she couldn’t speak at that moment: her scream of pain would have ruined any sort of strong stance she had in that room. She felt the tears behind her shut eyelids as she felt another set of claws slash against her back, from her shoulderblade to her lower back.

Feyre doubled over, already in pain, feeling her tears streaming down her eyes, mirroring the blood now sliding out of her wounds and down her back, soaking her pants, flowing down to the floor of the same horrid colour. She could hear Attor’s disgusting chuckles behind her, while Amarantha squealed with delight.

“Speak, little whore! Speak!” Amarantha chirped.

_I am not a whore._

Attor’s nails dug into her flesh again, deeper this time, making her mouth open in a silent scream, in protest to the rest of her body. Amarantha’s laugh grew louder, as did Attor’s, and Feyre’s head started spinning. She must have been losing a lot of blood, already.

_What will Tamlin do if I die here?_

_What will_ Rhys _do?_

He must have thought she was a stupid little girl, Feyre thought, as Attor repeatedly scratched and pierced her back, as the edges of Feyre’s vision blackened, as she collapsed forward, her hands quickly bracing themselves on the red floor in front of her, her blood soaking it almost making her palm slip; Rhys must have thought she was a stupid little girl for giving her life and freedom away for a man, for letting Amarantha do this to her for a man. She didn’t care. But she did care.

Still, Feyre protested against Amarantha, resisted her torture, as much as possible. She didn’t urge her voice to work the way she did when she tried to speak to Tamlin or Rhys. She didn’t sob or cry silently, nothing beyond letting tears of clear pain fall from her stinging eyes.

Even several minutes later, when Amarantha, still cheerful, spoke, “Enough for today,” Feyre held her ground. Her black pants were soaked with her blood, and there were trails running down the sides of her waist. Her back stung from the wounds and her head threatened to shut down any second. But still, Feyre managed to look up, through her tears and sweat, straight at Amarantha, her face set in the same stone expression as several moments ago.

She would not let this woman win.

Amarantha simply grinned. “Take her away,” She ordered, waving a hand at the guards, still holding eye contact with Feyre, “And give her a salve to stop the bleeding; we can’t have her bleeding out—we need her for entertainment next week, and of course, for Tamlin.” Feyre would have spat at her, had she had the energy, for the way she said Tamlin’s name.

“Yes, your Ladyship.”

Feyre couldn’t bring herself to look at Rhys, though she felt his gaze on her, as she was dragged out of the room.

* * *

 

By the time the salve had been delivered to Feyre, she was surprised that she hadn’t bled herself dry yet. As she sat on her knees, picking up the tiny container of salve, someone stepped into her cell.

Feyre didn’t have to look to know who it was. His presence was known to her, like previously, before he was even there. Feyre stayed quiet—well she had no option other than to stay quiet—but it was mostly because she didn’t know _what_ to say, rather than because she didn’t want to speak to him.

She didn’t protest as she felt him sit behind her, his closeness making her dizzier than the blood loss made her. She didn’t protest, either, when he reached around her, his breath warm on her shoulder, and took the container of salve out of her hand.

Rhys didn’t seem to be wanting to talk, either, because the next few minutes went by with Rhys quietly applying the salve to her back, Feyre wincing every few minutes when it stung too much. His hand worked so carefully, Feyre wondered how it was the same hand that was used to kill people, to kill Tamlin’s family.

When she shivered, she knew it was because of the feel of his touch, of his breath, of his closeness, instead of the cool air on her naked torso. When she realised how fast her heart was beating, she knew it was because of _him_ and not because of what she had gone through.

“Feyre.”

Her eyelids fluttered closed as soon as he spoke; she would have leaned back against him had she not been in pain… or topless...

_Or with Tamlin._

Feyre hated herself so much.

“Feyre, please.” His hand had found her arm and clasped it so gently, Feyre almost crumbled. She fought back tears and gingerly turned to face him, not realising exactly how close they really were. She could feel his breath on her cheeks, just through his subtle open-mouthed breathing. Their faces were so close that, if Feyre leaned forward, just less than an inch, they would have bumped noses.

Or lips.

Rhys’ pale face had blackened with tiredness, the whites of his eyes reddened, staring directly into Feyre’s own. She thought that maybe he hadn’t been getting enough sleep; she hadn’t been able to notice from such a distance back in Amarantha’s throne room.

Rhys’ hand rose up to touch her cheek, and Feyre prepared herself for the electric sensation, until he hesitated and dropped it again, just short of touching her skin. She tried not to be disappointed, after all that had happened between them— _after what he had done to Tamlin._

Rhys’ other hand rose instead, holding black material, which Feyre realised were another set of his clothes. Her heart started aching at the gesture—and once again she was left to wonder how this Rhys was the same as the Rhys in Lucien’s story.

His eyes were still on Feyre completely, as she warily raised her own hand to take the clothes from him. She wondered, for a moment, if Rhys had any clothes that weren’t black. Not that she minded; he looked beautiful in them.

“Feyre,” Rhys spoke her name for the third time, and it killed her inside, almost longing to be back at that point where _Feyre_ rarely ever came without _darling_ following it. It killed her more, hearing how strained his voice was as he spoke to her. “Will you come with me?” He asked, his voice a mere whisper as he stared at her, violet eyes soft. “Please, I have people at my home, they can heal your cuts.”

Feyre hesitated, unsure to trust him. He seemed to notice this, so both of his hands grasped her own, one of them over the set of clothes he had given her. “Please trust me. I just want to help you.”

His voice, desperate, pained, sounded so sincere that it had Feyre nodding before she had even processed the idea of leaving with him.

And so Rhys left Feyre alone momentarily to dress herself, and then the two of them left for the Night Court.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd. I'm still looking for a beta!  
> polarisirwins.tumblr.com

Feyre had been wrong about Prythian.

Or rather, Tamlin had lied to Feyre about all of Prythian being horrible and dark.

She wasn’t exactly sure how they had ended up in this glorious place. No, she did. _Each Court is protected by a little bit of magic_ , Rhys had told her some time when they were still interacting. Feyre knew magic had been extinct for decades, and Rhys confirmed so: _Prythian has been standing for centuries, and our ancestors set up these wards. The Courts are farther away from each other than you would realise, there are all these strange invisible magical barriers, walls, tunnels that… somehow, if you’re a High Lord, would bow to you, become shorter, defy space, at your command._

Feyre had been beyond fascinated, and also a little hurt that Tamlin had never told her anything about magic being so tied into Prythian.

But the thought escaped her as she took in her surroundings. They had not even come to the end of a narrow, underground tunnel when the damp stone around Feyre and Rhys had disappeared and instead, around them, stood a… home.

“This is the High Lord's—my—private residence,” Rhys whispered from behind her, his breath tickling the back of her neck, sending a spark down her entire spine. She stepped away from him quickly, partly in discomfort—or rather, too much comfort—and partly in awe.

The Night Court was beautiful from what Feyre could see of it. Rhys’ home was perched on top of a mountain, one of many, each topped with enough snow that it made Feyre psychologically cold, wrapping her arms around herself, until, she realised, the house was completely warm, despite the massive windowless gaps in the wall—walls? They were just pillars.

_Magic._

Feyre’s heart leapt in excitement.

“If you’re so impressed by this, you’re going to love The City of Starlight,” Rhys spoke from a distance behind her, his voice echoing off the walls in the hall.

Feyre was puzzled for merely a second, wondering how anything could be more enchanting than the High Lord of the Night Court's—Rhys’—private residence; luxurious curtains, dining and sitting areas down the hall, massive carpets and rugs, towering marble pillars; a home fit for a king. Feyre had been so dazzled that it had very much distracted her from the stinging pain in her back.

“Feyre.”

His voice was a melody, and her name on his tongue a beautiful song.

Slowly, she turned to face him, and the thought hit her like an icy blast from the wind outside: he looked like a king, perfectly fitting in his castle of night. He looked uncomfortable, though, as he gingerly stepped closer to her, each step calculated, echoing off the walls, until he stopped just a foot away from her. His eyes hadn’t looked away from her own, his expression uncertain, concerned, still showing a shade of hurt.

_You did this to him._

_No, he deserves it for what he did to Tamlin._

Feyre realised how exhausted she was, constantly fighting with herself, with her mind, her heart, her body. She just wanted to… Wanted to…

She wanted to let everything go.

But she knew she couldn’t, for Tamlin’s sake, so she fought against the urge to learn her body against Rhys when he reached for her. Instead, she held her ground, her chin raised, back straight, arms crossed over her chest, in confidence she knew that Rhys knew was fake. She held his gaze, and his face reflected even more of that hurt she had noticed earlier. It took all of her flickering remains of strength not to throw herself at him, at the man who _murdered_ the people Tamlin loved.

Feyre hated herself so much.

She hated herself more for leaning into Rhys’ touch when a delicate hand, the hand that had gently applied salve to her back only a while ago, the hand that had healed her bruises two weeks ago— _no_ , the hand that had been caressing Amarantha’s milky thigh just a few hours ago—touched her cheek. Warmth pooled around her face, and Feyre’s body betrayed her as her eyes closed, her heart speeding up.

“I’m sorry.”

Rhys had stepped closer while she wasn’t looking, because his breath was once again on her face, his lips possibly just mere inches away from her own. The scent of jasmine and citrus and the sea was stronger on him here, where his entire home smelled like him. Feyre let her body get drunk on it. She was tired.

Another one of Rhys’ large, tender hands was now stroking through her knotted hair, getting stuck repeatedly, yet not pulling hard enough to hurt her.

There was a difference, Feyre realised, in Tamlin’s gentleness and Rhys’. While Tamlin touched her carefully, as if she were a porcelain doll, Rhys touched her carefully because he was uncertain: of what she would do, of whether his actions were allowed.

 _But_ , Feyre reminded herself, _he has other motives._

“Please look at me, Feyre.” Fighting against the knowledge that looking into Rhys’ stunning violet eyes at such a close proximity would snip the thread of dignity Feyre was holding onto, she slowly opened her eyes, and was met with his own.

Feyre felt herself melting, crashing, diminishing, weakening.

Rhys’ eyes had glassed over, as if fighting back tears, and his hands were still on her face and in her hair, his face, like she had predicted, just inches away from her. Feyre was warm and overwhelmed with his presence, a presence like no other, one she didn’t only feel around but in her.

Rhys’ forehead came to rest on top of hers, his hands tilting her head up while his own bent to accommodate their difference in height. Feyre didn’t fight, she was too tired to fight, but not tired enough to stop her own arms from reaching up and wrapping around his waist, so, against her heart and her body’s will, her arms remained limp at her sides.

“I’m sorry for what that bitch did to you,” Rhys spoke, his voice hushed, cracking, like a boy’s, his lips brushing against the tip of her nose as they moved. If her head tilted just a little higher, they could— “I… I wish I could have done something about…” His voice gave away and he swore, making Feyre’s heart break, realising how much he was struggling.

But Rhys didn’t get to continue, because their moment was interrupted with the sound of quick, light footsteps down the hall. Rhys pulled away from Feyre and straightened himself up—not like his arrogant posture back in Amarantha’s Court, but just less fragile, yet still vulnerable… comfortable—just in time for when their company appeared.

Two women. The first: tall, golden haired, which was tied back in a braid, clad in a gorgeous turquoise dress of similar fashion to Rhys’ usual attire—Night Court fashion, perhaps. She was as beautiful a woman as Rhys was a man. Her lips held a soft smile, while her eyes betrayed her, showing what seemed to be concern as she stared down Rhys and Feyre.

The second woman was significantly small, definitely several inches shorter than Feyre herself, her straight black hair coming down to her chin, a simple, tanned face. She wore a tunic and pants, the same as Feyre, while her wrists, neck and ears held pearled jewelry. She looked rather bored, no trying smile on her face, unlike her companion, while her eyes… her eyes were what had perplexed Feyre: the strangest silver, swirling in her irises.

“Feyre,” Rhys began, as the two women stopped a few feet away from them. “Meet my cousin, Morrigan, or just Mor.” He gestured a hand to the golden-haired woman, whose smile grew brighter, friendlier. “And this,” He gestured to the black-haired woman—was she a woman? A human?—“is Amren.” This time, Amren looked at Feyre, and her grin turned wicked, excited. “Mor, Amren, meet Feyre.”

The golden-haired woman—Mor—stepped forward, a smile still on her face. “I’ve already heard so much about you, Feyre.” Her voice was lovely, song-like, the same as her cousin’s. Rhys let out an alarmed, warning noise as Mor pulled Feyre into a hug, making Feyre almost fly forward with the sudden force. She realised Rhys had let out the noise because Mor would have hurt Feyre’s back with the hug, because she noticed him let out a breath and relax his shoulders when Mor only held Feyre by the waist, careful not to touch her back.

When Mor pulled back, Amren didn’t follow with a hug. Feyre felt relieved that she didn’t. She was still feeling… intimidated.

“Now,” Mor said, her hands on Feyre’s arms, looking at her still with a comforting smile—Feyre felt grateful for her kindness—“I got you some clothes, as per Rhys’ request.” Feyre quickly looked at Rhys, surprised, but he seemed to be gazing at something on the sleeve of his tunic. “And Amren’s here to heal your cuts.”

Feyre had still been looking at Rhys, wondering when he had sent this message off to the two women, wondering why he was being so kind to her, what he wanted from her. Her chest filled up in warmth, thinking, just for a second, that perhaps it was just genuine kindness.

It seemed believable, but Lucien’s story made her uncertain.

 

* * *

 

Rhys had left Feyre with the two women while they fixed her up, and it hadn’t taken long, despite both women—yes, Amren included—being more than welcoming, for Feyre to miss Rhysand’s presence.

And as usual, she hated herself for it.

She was curled up on a large black divan in the sitting area, topless, while Amren had pulled up a chair to sit behind her to work on her cuts. Feyre had noticed Amren had no instruments or medication with her when she had started, and only a few minutes later did she realise that Amren didn’t need any instruments—she was using magic to heal her.

It felt strange; there were no touches, no feelings of air or some magical entity brushing against her large cuts, just the feeling of the stinging pain wearing off slowly, as Amren continued her work.

Mor was seated in a high-backed chair across from Feyre, sipping on a glass of wine, as she watched Amren do her work. Very little conversation occurred, perhaps because their questions to Feyre would be pointless because she couldn’t reply, perhaps because there was nothing they could talk about that the lover of the High Lord of Spring would be allowed to hear, perhaps… There was nothing to say.

But a few minutes into the process, Mor spoke, “Rhys told me he’s teaching you how to read and write.”

Fighting back the shame she felt that people knew she was illiterate, and also not wanting to go into the details of her and Rhys’ relationship, of how the teaching had come to a halt, Feyre merely nodded.

Mor’s smile was incredible. “Great,” She said merrily, “After you learn, we can actually have a conversation. There’s so much I want to ask you, and they’re not yeses-and-no’s-type questions.”

Grinning, Feyre let herself be amused by Mor’s enthusiasm, to which Amren simply chuckled.

“I’m almost done here,” said Amren, as soon as heavy footsteps—Rhys’, Feyre could feel him—echoed down the hall as their High Lord approached.

“I hope you haven’t talked her to death, Mor,” was the first thing he said as soon as he was in eyesight. His tone was light, almost joyful, as if just a few moments in the Night Court made him happier. When Feyre glanced up at him, looking at his cousin, she noticed the subtle smile on his face which indicated that her hunch was right.

She had so many questions to ask him.

“Actually,” Mor said, her voice teasing, “We were unable to have a conversation because you’re a lousy teacher who still hasn’t been able to help her to write or read properly.”

Despite knowing the real story behind why Feyre was still unable to read or write properly, Rhys chuckled, and turned to face Feyre and Amren, eyes twinkling.

Feyre melted seeing that little bit of joy on his face, just from being home for a few minutes. It sparked her curiosity, about why he was with Amarantha, about why he didn’t remain at home, but it also put her in a state of bliss.

She looked away as soon as she realised she was staring at him for far too long, and instead pulled an arm up to cover her breasts—a silly action, really, because he had seen her topless thrice now, including this moment.

“Okay!” Amren said, breaking the silence, and Feyre could hear her standing up. “All done.” Feyre was surprised when Amren held her shoulder and hand, helping her into a sitting position. Feyre turned her head and offered her a small, grateful smile, which she returned.

By the time Feyre had turned her head back forward, Rhys had approached her, holding a beautiful, sapphire tunic, which he draped around her. Thrown, Feyre simply stared at him, while he, after having her slip her arms through the sleeves, buttoned up the tunic, not looking at her.

Despite being aware that Mor and Amren were watching, Feyre didn’t tear her eyes away from the beautiful man now dressing her, like one would their lover. She studied those gorgeous eyes, noticing for the first time, the silver flecks that glittered amongst the purple, she observed the movement of his sharp cheekbone as his jaw clenched, the way his lips remained slightly parted, distracted.

Rhys was a masterpiece, Feyre realised.

“We should return,” He spoke, now looking at Feyre, making her face heat up in embarrassment. “If Amarantha finds out I brought you here to get healed, she’ll…” Rhys didn’t continue, but Feyre knew the consequences of their actions would be bad.

Feyre nodded as Rhys picked up a large bag made of black silk, the one Mor had kept next to her, saying it contained hand-picked clothes from the best store in the City of Starlight, making Feyre suddenly embarrassed to have had Rhys make Mor go shopping for her.

As Rhys held out a hand for her, Feyre stood up, waiting for some sort of pain at the movement, but feeling none. Amren must have done a really good job, so, when Rhys grabbed her hand, Feyre gave Amren another grateful smile.

“You’re welcome,” Amren replied, before Mor stepped in between them, this time pulling Feyre into a bone-crushing hug, one that, perhaps, she would have received earlier had she not been horribly in pain. Feyre returned it with her free hand, the other still, strangely, comfortably, in Rhys’ grip.

“Come back soon,” Mor said.

Feyre left the Night Court with Rhysand, feeling more confused than she had when she had entered it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not beta'd. It's not as easy to check your own work as you'd think. Please leave comments/kudos! x
> 
> polarisirwins.tumblr.com

“Just one week and you’ve thinned so much.”

 _Yes, that’s kind of what happens when you’re a prisoner who gets scraps for food_ , Feyre retorted, looking sharply at Lucien, who cringed and looked away from her gaze, metal eye still staring directly at her. He had also thinned down, though not as significantly as Feyre herself. She knew, from how he behaved and the way he looked, that he was worried about her, possibly about Tamlin, too.

It made her feel awful for having snapped at him, so she reached a pale hand out to clasp over his large one, making him face her once again, mouth set in a deep frown. “I’m sorry,” Lucien said, his voice hushed.

Squeezing his hand, Feyre shook her head, then moved her own hand back to reply: _It’s alright, I’m sorry, I’m just a little angry._

The tension holding Lucien’s shoulders up seemed to ease a little, and he looked at Feyre with a sympathetic expression. “I know,” he spoke, brushing a hand through his crimson hair in frustration. “I know Tam should have come along, Feyre, he just…”

 _I know it wasn’t because he was busy with work that he didn’t come to see me last week_ , Feyre signed.

Lucien seemed to hesitate, but then he continued: “It wasn’t, I’m sorry I lied. I just didn’t want to upset you.” Feyre’s heart ached for a moment because of his thoughtfulness. “Tamlin just doesn’t want to be here, he says it’ll be too painful for him, seeing you here, like this, not being able to take you home. He thinks it was crueler for Amarantha to let him see you just once a week than not see you at all.”

Feyre’s mouth opened in a silent, dark laugh. The irony, she thought, that Tamlin found it too painful to come see her just once a week, while she was there constantly for over two weeks now, experiencing more pain—dying.

She would die, Feyre thought, if she remained there for much longer, with her sudden inability to keep her food down, on top of how little of it she received anyway, along with how much blood loss she would be incurring every week.

On top of the horrible mental stress of _Tamlin verus Rhys versus Tamlin versus Rhys._

 _I hope you don’t agree with him_ , was all Feyre signed to Lucien.

“Of course not,” Lucien said. “You’re doing this for _him_ , he should be coming to see you.” Feyre smiled softly, sadly, at her friend. “But, Feyre,” He grabbed her hand and squeezed, his tone suddenly extremely solemn, “Be patient with him. He doesn’t think like you or I. He… He just needs you to be patient with him. I don’t agree with his reasons but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand where he’s coming from.”

Tamlin lost his entire family, Feyre reminded herself. He just didn’t want to lose her as well.

That was what Feyre had kept reminding herself of, every time she felt a little bitter towards Tamlin—something that, strangely, had been happening very frequently recently.

It was also something that she kept reminding herself every time she got too comfortable around Rhysand.

(Like the previous night, which had almost ended up in a mess, because Rhys was irresistible and Feyre was stupid. Because Rhys had asked her, when walking her to her cell, why she put up with Tamlin, but of course received no reply. Because Rhys had asked her why she still loved Tamlin, even when he had left her Under the Mountain—Feyre had been beyond fascinated to find out she was a prisoner under Prythian’s central mountain—to suffer. Because Rhys had asked her why she still loved Tamlin, even when he had been with Ianthe while Feyre was at home for him. Because they had been standing in Feyre’s cell already, but neither were willing to say goodbye yet. Because the entire dungeon was silent, except for the constant sound of water droplets falling from a leak somewhere. Because Feyre could feel Rhys all around and inside her body, his presence, his scent. Because the purple of Rhys’ eyes could still be seen, even in the dim firelight. Because Rhys was beautiful. Because Rhys was moonlight in a night sky. Because Rhys was tall and Feyre was not. Because Rhys’ left hand held Feyre’s right, warm, calloused, homely. Because Rhys’ right hand had risen from his side and had tucked loose strands of Feyre’s disgustingly dirty brown hair behind her equally dirty ear. Because Rhys’ eyes bore into Feyre’s so intently she was sure he could see into her soul. Because Feyre’s body was treacherous and loved the feeling of Rhys’ touch. Because the few seconds that the two of them stood there just staring at each other, with Rhys’ hand still on Feyre’s face, felt like a blissful eternity. Because Rhys tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, as if making an observation. Because Rhys smiled ever so softly. Because Rhys’ raven hair fell over his eyes, and Feyre lifted a small hand to brush it away. Because Feyre, like Rhys, didn’t retract her hand. Because a soft chuckle escaped Rhys’ lips, his breath blowing over Feyre’s face like a most calming breeze. Because Rhys opened his mouth and spoke, almost a whisper: “You are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.” Because Feyre didn’t look away after Rhys said that. Because, after a moment of silence and staring at each other, Rhys had curved his body over just slightly and leaned his beautiful face in closer to Feyre’s. Because Feyre had slowly tilted her head up to Rhys. Because the hand holding Feyre’s own moved to her waist instead, fitting perfectly. Because Feyre had closed her eyes when Rhys’ breath fanned over her face. Because Feyre’s heart skipped a beat, her insides warmed, and she shivered when Rhys’ lips just barely brushed her own. Because Feyre had almost let Rhys kiss her.

Almost.)

Feyre hadn’t realised she had been thinking of Rhys and his lips and the mere _brush_ of them on her own for so long, until Lucien shook her slightly by the shoulder.

“Feyre. Feyre, are you okay?”

Hoping her face wasn’t as red as her body was warm, Feyre nodded and signed a quick apology. She let Lucien take her hand in his, letting his presence ground her to reality, to him, to Tamlin—

 _Tamlin_.

Rhys’ three questions regarding Tamlin the previous night had been eating Feyre alive. The former two, she knew had a complicated but reasonable answer. The latter though… it had been something that had been gnawing at Feyre for two weeks.

So, finally, she looked at Lucien and signed: _Ianthe. Tell me about Ianthe._

Lucien visibly froze, metal and live eyes both wide, his mouth open slightly in—shock? Hesitance? Uncertainty? “Feyre,” he spoke, his voice merely a whisper, yet hitting Feyre like a blow to the head, because he wouldn’t be so cautious if Tamlin and Ianthe’s story had not been true. “You know Tamlin loves you.”

Feyre knew Lucien was trying to convince her to drop the subject, but she didn’t oblige. _I have the right to know, Lucien._

Lucien frowned, and looked away for just a second, drawing a deep breath, rubbing his free hand on the side of his face—the scarred side—and then, finally, he spoke: “It was only one time,” He said, and Feyre felt her heart shatter.

 _He loves me he loves me he loves me_ , Feyre reminded herself.

“Spring Court has a yearly celebration, called Calanmai, and Tamlin didn’t want to expose you to it. It… It can get pretty rough. And Ianthe was there, and Tamlin had been drunk and he… He’s been regretting it every day since, Feyre, I can promise you that.” Lucien looked at her, his expression pained, leaving Feyre uncertain about how she felt about the situation.

“Tamlin and Ianthe have known each other for years, and he just… He wanted to help her, regardless of what happened at Calanmai. You know how much he cares for people, Feyre.”

Still uncertain, Feyre simply nodded, reaching out with her other hand to hold his, when the door behind her slammed open, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps.

“Your time’s up,” a gruff voice announced, and Lucien immediately looked upset as he locked eyes with Feyre once again. Giving him a small, reassuring smile, Feyre got to her feet, an action which her soon-to-be-gone-and-incredibly-missed friend mirrored, before he stepped around the table between them and pulled Feyre into a tight hug.

He was able to move her with much more ease than before, possibly because she weighed much less than before, and Feyre fell against his body, her own weak arms wrapping around his torso, squeezing him. Once again, she took in the strong scent and feeling of home that came from Lucien—although this time, it wasn’t literally home that she wanted to feel again… she found herself not yearning to be back as much as before… this time, she took in the feeling of home that she got from being with _Lucien_ : her friend, the only person she openly trusted at that moment, the only person who wasn’t confusing her.

She was almost surprised when Lucien’s arms pressed against her back and she felt no pain—she had almost forgotten her trip to the Night Court, a trip and the reason behind the requirement of the trip which she had decided not to tell Lucien about. She didn’t want him or Tamlin worrying. She didn’t want him or Tamlin knowing about how much time she had been spending with Rhys.

When Lucien pulled away, his hand gently patted Feyre’s cheek, making her smile. “I’ll see you next week, I promise,” He said, and exited the room, immediately making Feyre feel cold and empty.

 

* * *

 

Amarantha had terrible timing.

Rhys had been preparing to leave his quarters and go visit Feyre, hoping that after everything that happened the previous day, she had forgiven him for whatever the reason was that she was angry with him.

He had just been about to exit when a knock sounded at his door, and a horrible, sweet voice chimed from outside: “Oh Rhysand!”

Rhys hated when she showed up in his room instead of calling for him, because that was when she had only one nasty intention. When she called for him instead, there would often be just a fifty-fifty chance of him having to force himself to fuck her.

He let out a sigh before putting on his mask, the High Lord of Night mask, the mask of _Amarantha’s whore_ , before opening his door. “Milady,” He welcomed, stretching his smile out more as he stepped aside to let Amarantha in.

As usual, because Amarantha did not even trust the people living in her own Court, two large guards accompanied her, who stayed outside, nasty, bored expressions on their faces, as Rhys closed the door behind his guest.

Amarantha wore a white silk dress, her breasts, always showing in some sort of way, revealed through two generous slits at her side, which followed through all the way to her hips. As she moved, the third slit in her dress, between her legs, widened, revealing more of her body than Rhys cared to see. She wore no jewelry, because both of them knew they would be off soon anyway.

As Rhys observed her, he realised that Amarantha, in all her gorgeous clothes and jewelry and her looks, was still nowhere as breathtakingly, stunningly beautiful as he thought Feyre to be, even covered in dirt and blood and in her sickly body.

Rhys ached all over remembering how sickly and thin Feyre had become within just a week, the week during which he hadn't gone to see her. He made a mental note to take food with him when he went to see her after Amarantha left.

Amarantha, the woman who was part of the reason Feyre was in this state. Amarantha, the woman who had tortured Feyre for sport.

Rhys tried with all his willpower to force down the rage he felt towards the woman standing right in front of him, and instead pinned her with a feline smile. “What a beautiful dress you have on, my Queen,” He said, bowing his head to her.

But Amarantha didn’t smile the way she usually did when Rhys attempted to flatter her. Instead, her eyes narrowed, and she took a step closer to him, her hand drifting to his shoulders, nails digging in but failing to harm him in any way through the thick fabric of his tunic. But when she pushed him down, Rhys obliged, stooping to his knees.

Rhys remembered when he had gotten the twin tattoos of the Night Court's mountains on his knees. _I will bow to nothing and one but my crown_ , they said.

But he did; he bowed to Amarantha. He bowed for those mountains, for home, for Mor and Cassian and Azriel and Amren and Velaris. For Feyre.

Rhys was tired, but he would still fight for the people he loved. For his people.

Amarantha’s claws and gripped Rhys’ hair and pulled it back, making his head tilt up forcibly to face her. She wore a deep set frown. “You took that little whore to your Court,” She stated.

 _Mor. Cassian. Azriel. Amren. Velaris. Feyre_. Rhys reminded himself to help keep from lashing out at the bitch for calling Feyre a—a—

“Did you think I would let you around with our little guest without someone to watch you, my pet?” Amarantha inquired, her grip on his hair tightening, but it didn’t pain Rhys. He had been through worse with this woman.

He wasn’t stupid enough to think he and Feyre had been alone. She was a prisoner after all, and he had taken her away with no shackles or restraints. He knew they were probably being followed.

That was why he hadn’t taken her to Velaris. He couldn’t risk it.

“Only to heal those cuts, your Ladyship,” Rhys spoke in the most charming tone he could muster. He knew lying would create a bigger trap for himself, specially once Amarantha and Attor saw Feyre’s back the next week only to find her cuts gone. “The girl would have died had I not,” He felt his heart twinge at the thought of this and had to fight to keep his tone cool, “and then we would be left with no leverage with Tamlin.”

Amarantha’s eyes only narrowed futher, and her grip on his hair tightened, just on the verge of being painful. So Rhys raised a hand and brushed his knuckle against the side of her exposed waist. Acting—he was good at acting.

Amarantha seemed to falter a little, but then she sneered, “I’m beginning to question your loyalties, Rhysand,” She said. “With how much you seem to be caring about that girl.”

He couldn’t afford Amarantha thinking he wasn’t on her side. _Mor. Cassian. Azriel. Amren. Velaris. Feyre._  He reminded himself. He would give everything up for them. So he collected his thoughts, his pain, his worries, and said: “Me? Of course not, my Queen. After all, she will be the High Lord of Spring's consort someday,” He felt his insides twist up at the thought, “—of course, that is, unless he comes for _your_ hand instead,” He added, making sure to add a slight look and tone of jealousy when he said that, to really sell himself.

Amarantha’s smile started to appear slowly. It was working. So Rhys went on: “And you know my relationship with Tamlin, Milady, I’m simply just… Trying to get a rise out of him. Just for fun.” He put on a wicked grin, his High Lord of the Night Court smirk, and cupped the back of Amarantha’s thigh.

There were so many sparks erupting inside him every time he had the opportunity to touch Feyre. Every single spark inside Rhys died each time he became Amarantha’s whore.

“Good,” said Amarantha after a moment of silence, her grip on his hair loosening, “Because you know our deal, Rhysand. I do not want you to take the girl to heal, I want her to feel that pain. You start demonstrating your allegiance being elsewhere, and my agreement to spare the Night Court falls. You wouldn’t want to lose all that power, now would you, my pet?” Her tone was sweet again, her nail dragging up against his cheek, with just slight pressure.

 _Mor. Cassian. Azriel. Amren. Velaris. Feyre._  Rhys repeated in his head. “Of course not, Your Highness. My loyalties lie with you,” He said.

Amarantha’s disgusting, delighted little laugh echoed through the expanse of his room, and her hand moved down to the front slit of her dress, moving the fabric on the left over her hip, revealing her lack of undergarments.

Rhys’ stomach filled with revulsion as he took in the sight of Amarantha’s cunt and the silent order that came with the unveiling of it. He was tired of this, of being used, more than anything else, but he reminded himself: _Mor. Cassian. Azriel. Amren. Velaris. Feyre._

And, swallowing the bile rising in his throat, he put his mouth to Amarantha; hating the sensual sigh she let out, hating the way she touched his hair, hating the taste of her, hating the feel of her against his mouth, hating the feel of the small tuft of red hair against his nose.

He hated her more than words could describe.

So he blocked her out; blocked out her sounds, the feel of her, and instead imagined the only woman he wanted to put his mouth to. He imagined her laying in his bed, not the one here in Under the Mountain, but the one back at home in Velaris, the one in his town house. He imagined her naked, her body once again healthy and beautiful, skin bright, rid of scars, her silky golden-brown hair in long waves against his dark pillows, her delicate but strong hands gripping his sheets, her face… Oh that beautiful face, twisted up in pleasure, irresistible lips mouthing _his_ name, as he tasted her. He knew she would taste sweet, better than anything he had ever tasted, because that’s what Feyre was.

He felt wrong for thinking of her like that, but he couldn’t help himself, and he felt his frustration and lust down in his ever so tightening pants, just as Amarantha pushed his head away from between her legs and ordered him to the bed. He felt ever so slightly thankful for the hardness in his pants in that moment, because he could use that as further leverage on his side to prove his allegiance and his so called “love” to Amarantha once he was naked.

When Amarantha moved onto his nude body moments later, while she writhed and moaned his name on top of him, still in her dress, Rhys only thought of Feyre, of her like this on him, of the two of them connected so beautifully, but of course, the mere thought of her got him nowhere as Amarantha reached her climax while he didn’t. And he was glad—he didn’t want to give that much of himself to Amarantha.

She didn’t seem bothered with it anyway, when she got off of him and threw a wicked smile at him and left his room.

Rhys wasn’t sure how long he had stared at his ceiling after that, wanting to crawl out of his own skin.

 

* * *

 

When Rhys entered her cell that evening, Feyre didn’t feel as guilty as she should have. She was still balancing between being angry with Tamlin and feeling sympathetic for him.

But still, she gave into the fluttering of her heart, of the utter joy she felt as soon as he stepped in, carrying a tray of actual _food_ , which he placed in front of her.

“Oh darling, I missed you,” He said, and Feyre felt so joyed at hearing that nickname again that she could have leapt up and hugged him for it. Instead, she shifted to make space on the floor for him to sit.

She didn’t really know how to respond to him after everything that they had been through. If she was feeling any sort of guilt, it was more regarding Rhys than Tamlin, in that moment.

But when Rhys sat down next to her, and Feyre got a good look at him, she was beyond shocked. His hair was messy in a way she had never seen it, his eyes were distant, his lips parted in distraction, his clothes rumpled. He smelled… not exactly like Rhysand.

He was a man who always appeared so well-kept, but that evening, Rhys looked like he had given up.

Feyre only made a gesture as if to ask _what?_ when he turned his violet eyes to her, looking upset, torn, tired.

“Amarantha… Amarantha made me…” He closed his eyes and let out a ragged breath, making Feyre’s heart break. _Whore_ , she had called him, and she hated herself for it.

“Feyre,” Rhys whispered, his hand lifting to her cheek, fitting as perfect as puzzle pieces, making Feyre close her eyes and lean against his intoxicating touch. His thumb, calloused yet gentle, brushed against her skin as he spoke, “She knows. Amarantha knows I took you to get healed.”

Feyre opened her eyes in alarm, looking at Rhys again. She had thought of this that morning, wondering what Amarantha would have said the following week when she saw Feyre’s bare back, of whether Amarantha would be able to figure out that Rhys was behind Feyre’s sudden healing, of what Amarantha would do to Rhys if she found out.

Feyre frowned, and placed her own hand on top of the one Rhys had on her cheek, giving it a light squeeze. _I’m sorry_ , she mouthed.

Rhys only shook his head. “It’s not your fault,” He said. “Don’t apologise for it.” He pulled away this time, letting out a light groan and facing away from Feyre, leaning his head back against the stone wall behind him. For the first time, he looked so… tired. “Feyre,” He whispered, pained, his eyes closing. Feyre stared at him, at all that beauty and torment and secrets. “Feyre, she threatened my Court, my home,” He whispered.

As soon as she took in what he said, Feyre started to sign— _don’t take me back to get healed again_ —before she realised Rhys didn’t understand her. So she held his hand and squeezed, until he looked at her, his eyelids drooping just slightly. He was so incredibly exhausted, or he would never have shown himself to be so vulnerable, Feyre realised.

She pointed at her back and then at him, and then shook her head, hoping to get her message across. She knew she could deal with the remaining pain of the cuts just with some salve, and she would do that for Rhys and his Court. For his home and his friends. For the two women she had met the previous day, who had been so kind to her.

Rhys seemed to have understood, because he took both of her hands in his own and squeezed. “I’m so sorry,” He said, “I wish there was something more I could do. I… I have to protect my people.” He sounded so sincere, so wounded.

Feyre simply nodded and leaned forward, pressing her lips to his forehead, just above his eyebrows. _I understand_ , she hoped her actions would say.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ, THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT!  
> Okay so I had been trying to come up with a subplot about why the Courts/Lords had changed to Territories/Leaders and how they would change back, BUT I wasn't being able to incorporate it smoothly to the main plot. SO I had to omit it, and (because of reasons I hope you guys are biased towards ACOTAR enough to understand) I had to change the Territories/Leaders into Courts and High Lords. Don't worry about lack of continuation, I'm going back to previous chapters and editing everything!! Thanks so much for bearing with me.  
> Also, because I was late to update, you guys are getting 3k extra words this chapter.

Feyre’s life in Under the Mountain had fallen into almost a blissful routine. Everyday, Rhys would bring her breakfast, a set of books and a change of clothes (“Good morning, darling”). He would look away while she stripped her dirty attire and change into a new set, despite already having seen her topless, and then the two of them would sit down and tutor each other, or Feyre would be left alone if Rhys had duties, which she didn’t mind—but his absence was felt more deeply than it should have. Still, no matter where he was, Rhys would be there to bring her lunch in the afternoon, and Feyre would continue her learning regardless of whether or not Rhys was present, up until it was night time and he brought her dinner. They would sit together while she tried to, for the third time each day, consume much more food than she had become accustomed to within the past few days. By dinner time, it would often be a little difficult to stomach so much food, and Feyre would end up vomiting half of it out on the ever-growing pile of garbage in the far corner of the cell, while Rhys held her hair back. It was common that a moment of silence would ensue after that, with a strange look of guilt and remorse and slight, controlled rage on Rhys’ face as he helped Feyre drink some water because her hands were shaking.

But the tension would slip away once Feyre curled up against Rhys’ side, making him wrap an arm around her small frame and lean his cheek against the top of her head. They would spend minute after minute, as Feyre believed with her estimation of time, in silence until Rhys kissed her forehead goodnight and forced himself to leave. It was a struggle for both of them to say goodbye at night, for Rhys to leave Feyre in the cold and in the dirt with no bed to sleep in, while he himself spent his night in a lavish room with a massive bed and a fire crackling throughout the night.

But both of them lived for those moments they spent together, no matter how they went. Often, they’d spend time leaning back against the wall in Feyre’s cell and try to communicate. Often they’d just sit in silence and enjoy each other’s presence. Often, Rhys would try using sign language and Feyre would throw herself into a fit of silent laughter because he had something like, “You look absolutely horse munch today,” to which Rhys would feign offense.

It had been going on for merely five days, and despite her situation, Feyre felt almost happy.

And, as she and Rhys had both noticed, Feyre was quite a quick learner. She had been able to write very short sentences to him in her terrible handwriting, albeit with a few mistakes in her spelling. When she had written down what Rhys had signed to her— _you look absolutely horse munch today_ —it had been Rhys’ turn to start laughing.

On the fourth night, though, they had stepped into a new level of comfort in their relationship. Rhys had discovered Feyre had quite the sharp tongue, while Feyre had discovered Rhys was a shameless flirt.

It had happened after dinner, when Rhys had passed Feyre a note— _You look absolutely delicious today, darling_. Rhys’ eyes twinkled in excitement, while Feyre almost laughed once she read it, and brought her piece of paper up close, on her knees, as she scribbled a reply. Rhys kept inclining his head, trying to peek at what she was writing, but she lightheartedly swatted at him, a bright grin on her face, and Rhys moved away, a soft laugh escaping his mouth.

Feyre passed Rhys her paper, slightly self-conscious about her handwriting and spelling, and waited for his reaction. Rhys’ expression grew even more amused and he turned his face to her. “Well, darling, it’s my natural charm, really.”

Feyre would have snorted. She had written, _Flirting with your student now are you?_

And then she took the paper back and scribbled her next note, snapping her teeth at Rhys in a teasing threat when he tried peeking again. This time, her note said, _How modest. So, there seems to be a lot I don’t know about your ‘natural charm.’_

Rhys grinned. “It seems our communication barrier had been worse than we thought. Oh the things you are yet to learn about the real Rhysand.”

 _So, the real Rhysand is a shameless flirt?_ Feyre made sure to give him a little smirk when she passed him this note, to ensure that it was all just a jest.

Rhys feigned offense again, his hand pressing on his heart. “Quite the sharp tongue. I’m wounded.”

 _Then go lick your wounds and leave me be, I’m busy studying_ , Feyre replied.

When he finished reading, this time, Rhys didn’t give Feyre back the paper. Instead, he shifted closer, already making Feyre anxious. He raised a hand and tucked her brown hair behind her ear, calloused fingers brushing against her skin. When he inclined his head forward, his lips brushing against the side of her neck, Feyre almost jumped, her body filling with desire, lust, just _more_.

“I would rather you lick my wounds for me,” He whispered against her skin, making Feyre’s face redden and her body almost grow slack.

Feyre’s hands shook while she wrote her next note: _Considering you just said I have a sharp tongue, would you really want that on your skin?_

Rhys pulled away, his eyes meeting Feyre’s own, eyes bright, breathing slightly hollow. “Even if it killed me, Feyre.”

She had to look away.

She felt like a traitor. But she also felt right. All the time, she denied the clear desire her body, her heart had been growing for Rhysand; him verbally admitting he felt the same didn’t help her pretending her feelings weren’t real.

So she wrote, _I’m tired. Goodnight, shameless flirt._

Rhys only smiled softly when he read her note, and then he leaned forward to kiss her forehead like every night, whispering, “Goodnight, my darling.”

But then, on the fifth night, two days before it would be Feyre’s second day of getting her flesh split open—the day Rhys was probably dreading more than Feyre—Rhys said, his voice solemn and distant while Feyre was almost—almost—sitting on his lap, “I’m going to go see Tamlin tomorrow. Unofficially. I’m going to give him my money, so he can take you out of here.” She had felt his grip tighten on her waist as he said so, while she herself was in a state of shock.

Leaving Under the Mountain meant freedom, meant being back with Tamlin, meant being back with Lucien. It meant going home—home? Was it really home?

_Is it really home?_

As soon as the speculation popped into her head, Feyre had looked up at Rhys, at an angle at which he couldn’t see her. She sat there for a good few seconds and stared at Rhys, at the strong yet dreamlike, princely features of his face, at the lips she had almost kissed, the ghosts of which still lingered on her own every time she thought of him. She grew more conscious of Rhys’ arm around her and the safe feeling of it, of how fitting it felt with her leg draped over one of his own, of how perfect it felt with her head nestled against the crook of his neck, of the strong scent of him, of jasmine and midnight and sea breeze, of the feeling of his chest rising and falling with his slow breathing, of how his heartbeat had picked up, which she could feel against her own body.

Leaving Under the Mountain meant never seeing Rhysand again, and the thought pained her more than being stuck in her disgusting cell, getting tortured weekly did.

But _Tamlin_. The man who was waiting at home for her, the man whom she loved, the man who loved her, the man whom she had done all of this for in the first place.

If she chose Rhys, how would she explain wanting to stay behind in this hell?

If she chose Rhys, she would make it obvious to Amarantha what had happened between them.

If she chose Rhys, she would be sacrificing his Court, his home.

So she chose Tamlin, and picked up the notepad and pen Rhys had gotten her, and wrote, with only slight difficulty: _Thank you_.

The pained, distant look on Rhys face killed Feyre when he read her note, violet eyes glassing over, teeth biting at his bottom lip. He nodded just slightly, a ragged breath escaping his lips as he closed his eyes and moved his free arm around Feyre as well, giving her warmth, comfort, peace. Feyre mirrored his actions, moving both her arms around his waist and this time completely moving onto his lap, her body curling up as he pulled her tighter against him. She inhaled Rhys’ scent, made her body memorise what it felt to be like this, in Rhys’ arms, surrounded by him. She could feel his frustration all around her, and felt uncertain about whether she should reveal her own frustration to him.

But she didn’t; she couldn’t risk it affecting him in a way it shouldn’t.

Instead, she asked him to take her with him when he went to see Tamlin. She was glad he didn’t ask why, because she didn’t want to reveal that she only wanted to spend every last minute possible with him. She was relieved when, after some consideration, Rhys agreed to take her.

Later, once Rhys had kissed her forehead (“Goodnight, my darling.”) and left the dungeon, Feyre almost cried herself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Because they had been followed last time, Rhys not only stunned the guard at the entrance of the dungeon, but he took Feyre out of Under the Mountain through a rather intricate, secret passageway. Still, when they got out onto the street, both of them wearing hoods to hide their faces, Rhys did a good check of their surroundings, which he repeated every few minutes as the two of them walked, while Feyre stared at him as he did so, the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

Rhys had gotten them a small, rickety carriage to travel to the Spring Court. He didn’t need to explain anything to Feyre; she knew the only reason they had gotten to the Night Court so quickly on foot was because Rhys was its High Lord.

It was Feyre who had clasped Rhys’ hand, it was Rhys who had pulled her closer, making the insanely small carriage looking like it actually had enough space for a third person when it really didn’t. Feyre knew it wasn’t time for goodbye yet, but the possible nearness of it ate her alive. She wasn’t ready to leave Rhys. She wasn’t ready to face Tamlin.

She didn’t even know how Tamlin would react to seeing Feyre accompanying Rhys.

The ride to the Spring Court was a very long one, but Feyre didn’t mind, because she got to see the rest of Prythian from a distance.

Tamlin had lied; the country was beautiful. As Rhys explained in a hushed tone, to keep from attracting their coachman’s attention, they had to travel around the Winter Court’s border because they were not allowed to go through it without the High Lord’s permission, because Rhys was from Night and Feyre from Spring.

This revelation, that she was in fact from the Spring Court, felt strange to Feyre, because she hadn’t even known the names of Prythian’s Seven Courts, or what Tamlin did, until she had become a prisoner. She had been made to believe, until Lucien’s first visit in Under the Mountain, that Tamlin was the leader of a small group of criminals who did illegal work.

Tamlin lied to keep Feyre hidden— _no, he lied to protect you_.

But she struggled to believe that Tamlin’s intentions were really that pure, as she took in what of the Winter Court she could from just outside its borders. Feyre had, at a point in life, started to resent Winter, snow, the cold. Yet, from what she could see, the Winter Court looked breathtaking, with its layers and layers of snow—Rhys didn’t have to explain that it was magic, it was clear to Feyre that it was—and its dense trees huddled together, leaves and branches blanketed with more snow.

Her curiosity peaked further when they made it to the border between the Summer and Autumn Courts, repeatedly looking from side to side to take both of them in, making Rhys chuckle softly into her hair in amusement.

The Summer Court, from a distance was as beautiful a representation of the season as The Winter Court was of its own season. A clear blue sky, no clouds, with gulls flying across them. She could see large land masses and ships and tall buildings of a strange, shimmery material that she was already craving to get a good look at. It looked like a place you could spend forever in, just in ease and relaxation.

On the other end, from a larger distance, Feyre could just barely see the Autumn Court, and realised that, had she known what the place looked like earlier, it would have been beyond easy to figure out Lucien was from here from the second she had first laid eyes on him. The red, orange, brown and yellow woods she could see from their carriage somehow represented the sharp and harsh yet gorgeous features of Lucien’s face and his physique. Of course, the colours were a direct representation of his wild red hair.

There must have been some reason Lucien had left the Autumn Court, his home, where his family was, but he had never said. Feyre felt bad for never asking.

She realised, in that moment, how much she missed him, and she really hoped he would be present at the Spring Court by the time they had reached it.

But then again, she wouldn’t be able to hug him, hold his hand, tell him how much she missed him, because of Tamlin’s presence. She tried not to resent that part of Tamlin that was so incredibly possessive, she usually managed to accept it, but around _Lucien_. His friend, who would never betray him. His friend, who he was supposed to trust.

Feyre wondered if Rhys would behave like that, and immediately chided herself for comparing this man she would say goodbye to, to the man she loved.

And as soon as she realised once again that she had to start saying goodbye to Rhys, she shifted even closer to him, pressing her body flush against his, which caught his attention. “Hey,” He said, arm tightening around her shoulders, “What’s the matter?”

So caring, so gentle.

Feyre simply shook her head and pressed her face to the side of Rhys’ neck, feeling his quick pulse there, knowing he was just as upset as her. Once again she got her body to memorise his presence, and she remained like that, with Rhys either rubbing circles on her back or stroking through her hair, until their coachman announced a while later, “Spring Court.”

It even had the scent of Spring, Feyre realised, as Rhys helped her step out of the carriage at the Spring Court’s border. Immediately, he let go of her hand and distanced himself from her, throwing her an apologetic glance, but Feyre understood why he had done it; she was supposed to hate him because Tamlin hated him.

So she simply watched in silence as Rhys thanked and paid their coachman, and then followed him, staying a few steps behind, as he began to walk towards the guards standing by the borders, both the same kind of handsome most of the men in Prythian seemed like, watching them, with clear curious looks on their face. Feyre made sure to keep a big enough distance and a look of discomfort as they approached, and Rhys said, “Lord Rhysand of the Night Court,” while it was clear he didn’t have to introduce himself, “I’m here on official business with Tamlin.”

She was glad he didn’t mention she was with him; she didn’t know what Tamlin would do if he found out she was here before she had Rhys had approached him. She knew Tamlin wouldn’t react well knowing Rhys and Feyre were there _together_. And if he knew the two of them were friends… more…

She knew Tamlin would tear the world apart in his rage.

So she distracted herself—only partially, so she didn’t get lost—and paid attention to the Spring Court, once one of the guards started leading them through the Court. Tamlin’s Court. Tamlin’s lands. The place was massive, a beautiful, bright sun shining over their heads, bathing the green spring grasses in its light. There was a light Spring breeze, that was accompanied by the fresh smell of wildflowers that hit Feyre’s nose strongly every time she breathed in. Bright colours of the season were everywhere, and taking one look at Rhys, Feyre noticed how out of place he looked here, in his dark Night Court attire and pale skin. She wondered how out of place she herself, in her own Night Court attire, looked too.

But her thoughts were interrupted as the guard and Rhys stopped at the peak of a hill and she joined them. Rhys was staring into a distance, his face solemn, approaching the cruel look of the High Lord of the Night Court but still not there yet, as he took in what Feyre realised was a beautiful, large estate.

Tamlin’s estate, the one he hid her from.

And it was absolutely stunning. From her view, green land went on and on around the building. It was covered in hundreds and hundreds of vines and roses, snaking around staircases and expansive balconies and patios. There were massive woods surrounding the estate’s lands, and right in front of it lay a gorgeous garden. Beyond the estate, if Feyre squinted enough, she could see what seemed like villages. She wondered how much activity went on there, what the lifestyles were of the people who the man she loved ruled over. She wondered why he had cut her off from such a big, important part of his life. This place was Tamlin’s home, and she wanted to be a part of it, regardless of whether or not he came here for illegal activity, as he had claimed, or if he came here to live and rule and be a kind man to his people.

 Strangely enough, the estate, with its forests and what seemed like stables and the vast garden, seemed more like a home than a sort of “meeting place” for official business.

Feyre felt selfish in thinking that this place could have been her home had Tamlin allowed it.

Instead, she focused on the garden that grew closer as Feyre and Rhys approached it. Feyre realised, as they passed through the rich bushes and trees adorning various flowers and fruit, that this was where Tamlin had gotten her flowers from every time they had made up after a fight. She recognized several of them, and immediately wondered if the roses that sat on their dining table back in their apartment had wilted.

Possibly.

Feyre followed Rhys and the guard up a set of steps at the front of the house, and then through its large open doors. The inside of Tamlin’s estate was just as beautiful as it was outside, the marble floor vast and open, with an extravagant staircase ahead, numerous doors everywhere. Feyre could see massive glass doors at the far end of the house, revealing what seemed to be an even grander garden behind the estate. She felt envious, slightly resentful, that Tamlin got to live among such beauty while trapping her in their small apartment.

The guard led the two of them to an open set of doors towards the left of the entrance hall, and Rhys and Feyre stayed back, out of sight, as the man cleared his throat and announced: “Lord Rhysand of the Night Court is here to speak, Milord.”

The vicious growl that was in no doubt Tamlin’s had erupted through the room and echoed through the house as soon as Rhysand’s name had been spoken. “What does he want?” a voice came from inside, already enraged, agitated.

Tamlin.

But he sounded so… off.

Feyre stole a glance at Rhysand, just in time to see him force a smirk onto his face, the High Lord of the Night Court smirk, before he whispered, sideways, without making eye contact, to Feyre: “Stay here, please, just for a minute.”

Such an earnest request, not a demand—the way Tamlin would have done it. It made Feyre nod her head and plant her feet where she stood before she had even contemplated why Rhys wanted her to stay behind.

And then, just as the guard started to speak: “He says he is here—” Rhys stepped forward, and into the room, his tone chirpy and dark, as he said, “Now, Tamlin, that is no way to treat your guest now is it?”

Feyre braced herself as she heard another growl, accompanied by a “Get out of here, Rhysand,” from Lucien. She leaned back against one of the open wooden doors, tilting her head, trying to get a good look without being seen, but failed. So she just listened.

“I’m here,” Rhys spoke, “Because I want to do you a favour.”

“What,” came Tamlin’s voice, and at the same time, came Lucien’s, “You never do any favours without impossible strings attached.”

Rhys was quick to reply, and Feyre realised how perfectly he was able to put on his cruel role. “Consider this a rather special favour, then. Tell me, Tamlin, how much of your debt to Lady Amarantha have you collected?”

Silence, and then: “It is of no business of yours.” Tamlin’s tone had changed, clearly extremely frustrated.

Which led to Rhys’ next comment, which had been exactly what Feyre had been thinking: “So that means you haven’t even gotten half of it yet.”

Tamlin’s growl this time was louder.

“Calm down, my friend,” Rhys said. “I’m here to offer you my help, my money, for nothing in return.”

Tamlin and Lucien said in unison, still angry: “Why?”

Rhys seemed to hesitate, and then he said, “So you can get that girl out of Under the Mountain.”

“Feyre is not of your concern.”

Feyre almost shook as soon as the words spilled out of Tamlin’s mouth. He spoke of her like she was his possession, his personal _whore_ —

“Look,” said Rhys, his voice suddenly solemn, “I know you don’t have any money, Tamlin. I know that you need to get Feyre,” it was so strange to hear him say her name with no affection in it, “Out of there, away from Amarantha. So I’m offering you my money. Just take it, come today, take her away. She’s… She’s all yours.”

Feyre wondered if Tamlin or Lucien could detect the hollowness in Rhys’ voice when he said that last bit, the hollowness that reflected in Feyre herself.

“Tamlin.” Lucien, oh Lucien, in his patient, reasoning tone, always trying to help Feyre, even now: “Tamlin, just consider it. We could get her out, we could get her home, tonight. She’ll be safe.”

“We’ll get her out on our own.”

“Tam—”

“No. We’ll get her out on our own, in our own damn time, even if it takes us a whole year.”

Feyre’s heart almost stopped. In betrayal, anger, disappointment… She needed to get out of there.

Rhys’ jesting tone had come back, when he said, “I’m afraid she may not even last that long in that gorgeous little hell, weak little girl.” Feyre knew he was only lying when he said these things. He was acting. “Of course, I could use her to my advantage if you’re willing to leave her there for longer.”

Tamlin roared this time, and the sound of glass and wood smashing against walls echoed through the house, making Feyre step back in shock. Tamlin’s voice boomed: “She is _MINE_. You touch her, and I kill you.”

And suddenly, Feyre felt claustrophobic. Even not being back in Tamlin’s arms yet, she felt trapped. And she realised, she didn’t want to be back in Tamlin’s arms. She didn’t want to be hidden from the world, she didn’t want to become a man’s belonging. She needed, she wanted freedom, trust.

Her heart beat so fast she could hear it in her ears, her hands shook, and her breaths came out ragged. She took a quiet step back. Get out. She needed to get out get out get out—

“Oh, who are you?”

Feyre whipped her head to her right, where a woman now stood. A very beautiful woman, tall, with fair skin, in a gorgeous blue dress. Her long golden hair cascaded down from her head from under a blue hood that matched her dress. On her head she wore a silver band, similar to the belt around her waist, which adorned stones. She had a soft, curious expression as she looked at Feyre, her lips set in a subtle, natural pout.

Before Feyre could react, Tamlin’s voice came from inside: “Who’s there?”

 _Oh no_.

The woman in front of her replied, in a sweet voice, still not taking her light eyes away from Feyre, “A girl.”

Asphyxiating silence followed, and then Tamlin ordered, “Bring her here.”

The woman smiled, and brushed past Feyre into the room, her dress sweeping behind her. She turned mid-step and looked at Feyre; “Come.”

Feyre knew she was trapped, and on top of that, she couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave this place without Rhys. So, taking a deep breath, she followed the fair haired woman, and stepped into what seemed to be the dining room. A long, long table took up most of it, covered in dishes and dishes of food, and crystal pitchers of wine. To the right of the room, against the wall, lay a pile of scattered broken pieces of crystal and splintered wood—possibly a chair. Food and wine splattered the floor and wall, some of it, as Feyre noticed, were on Rhys’ shoes.

He was staring at her with a patient, calculating look, as if trying to figure out if she was okay. She wanted to reach out to him, to melt into that comfort that radiated off of him, but instead she tore her gaze away and looked at the two men at the far end of the room, near the head of the table.

Lucien was there, red hair a mess, both eyes wild, chest heaving with deep breathing, a hand already on the hilt of the sword strapped to his side.

“Feyre.”

She finally forced herself to look at Tamlin, the man she was supposed to love, the man who wouldn’t save her because of his  _pride_. He had horrible bags under his eyes, his blonde hair looked unkempt, while the ghost of rage he had expressed towards Rhys just moments ago still lingered on his face, slowly being overtaken by confusion.

Tamlin took a step forward, and Feyre almost took a step back.

“Feyre,” He said again, sounding desperate, relieved, and Feyre didn’t even register the fact that he was walking until she had already been grabbed by the hips and pulled against his oh so familiar body. The swift force of it made Feyre fall against Tamlin’s chest, and he picked her up with ease, a movement that would have made her laugh, fill with complete joy, just a few weeks ago.

And when Tamlin’s lips crashed on hers, despite the familiarity of it, the sparks that Feyre would have normally felt were completely absent. Not a trace. Yet she still let herself be kissed, as Tamlin’s free hand moved up her side and cupped her face, as his teeth gently nipped at her bottom lip, as a soft growl escaped his lips. It was so familiar, and kissing Tamlin had seemed like such a second nature, even letting their kissing get a little out of hand, in front of other people. Yet, in that moment, the man that held her, who had now pulled away and buried his face in the crook between her neck and shoulder, felt more like a stranger than anyone.

There was no going back, Feyre realised.

Instead of holding Tamlin, instead of crying like she thought she would have, Feyre’s gaze fell on Rhys’, who was looking away, as if trying really hard to pretend this wasn’t happening. Forcing her eyes away, Feyre looked at Lucien instead. Her friend was looking right back at her, his expression a mix of confusion and relief.

That was when the blonde haired woman, a few feet away, spoke, “Oh, where are my manners,” and then she bowed, a low bow, and then touched her heart, “Lord Rhysand,” She greeted, her voice coated in honey.

Rhys only nodded curtly at her, his tone cold, colder than Feyre had ever heard, as he replied, “Ianthe.”

 _Ianthe_.

Before Feyre’s mind could comprehend it, her hands were already pushing and hitting at Tamlin’s muscled shoulders, her body trying to wiggle free of his resisting grip, sliding down his torso until her feet reached the floor. She pushed at Tamlin now, with all the anger and betrayal and hurt that had built up inside her, but she only managed to make him stumble back a step.

“Feyre,” Tamlin said again, voice and those emerald eyes full of confusion, until he took a quick glance at Ianthe and realised what had happened. Everyone else stood still and remained quiet, and Tamlin started to speak. “Feyre, please,” He said, desperation dripping from his voice, “Please listen… It-It was a mistake, Feyre. She doesn’t mean anything to me like that. I swear. I love _you_. I always have loved you. I always will love you,” his arms rose, and his hands started reaching for her, but Feyre took a step back. “Please believe me, Feyre,” Tamlin tried again, once again stepping towards her. “I love you.”

But Feyre was already backing up, towards Rhysand. She didn’t need to use her eyes to know where he was, it was as if her body was already drawn to his presence, which seemed to reach for her, wrap around her, comfort her, pull her close. She almost sobbed in relief when her back pressed up against his broad chest, and his hand drifted up to rest on her shoulder. Comfort. Ease.

Tamlin’s expression, as he noticed Rhys’ hand on Feyre, went from penitent to livid, his green eyes wide, nostrils flaring, teeth bearing in another growl.

“ _Let go of her_ ,” He ordered, his voice deep, ravenous, as his hands balled into fists. Lucien and Ianthe only watched in silence and curiosity from the background.

Feyre only reached back and gripped the hem of Rhys’ tunic, tugging at it gently, hoping to get her message across, while Rhys gently squeezed her shoulder. “It seems, Feyre darling,” Rhys spoke from behind her, his voice vibrating in his chest, which Feyre felt against her back, “That your High Lord doesn’t want you back.”

Tamlin only growled louder, while Lucien sneered. “ _Let. Her. Go_ , Rhysand,” Tamlin said, “I’m warning you.”

 _I am not a possession_ , Feyre thought.

“I think Feyre can speak, or rather, sign, for herself,” Rhys said, his hand once again giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, one she really appreciated in that claustrophobic moment. “Also, I think it’s rather clear that she doesn’t want to go with you.”

 Tamlin had been stepping closer to Rhys and Feyre now. “She’s just tired, she doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Tamlin spoke. “She’s _mine_.”

Feyre felt so hurt. So stupid.

And then, within a second, Feyre was grabbed and snatched away from Rhys at such force that she was sure, to Lucien and Ianthe, she looked like a ragdoll. If she could, she would have yelped while it happened, as she snatched at Rhys’ tunic, but only managed to scratch a few threads out with her dirty, uneven nails. A silent sob escaped her lips and her eyes filled with tears, which she tried to blink away.

Rhys’ mask of the High Lord of the Night Court faltered, and Feyre saw the concern, shock in his eyes as he reached a hand for her, but Feyre was being held behind Tamlin, a hand gripping her bony arm, possibly not realising how much it was hurting her.

She looked at Lucien, who seemed to be looking at his High Lord in utter shock.

“Hart,” Tamlin barked, and a man—the guard who had escorted them—stepped inside.

And despite having been conscious of Tamlin’s temper, of his possessiveness, she would have never expected it when he practically threw her at the man—Hart. Feyre stumbled forward, almost falling face first onto the marble floor, but then she braced herself on her trembling hands as she fell to her knees, whole body vibrating in pain, her knees almost giving away at the impact, her dirty hair flying all over her face.

“Tamlin!” Lucien’s voice held utter astonishment, while Rhys yelled, “ _Feyre_!”

Fighting the pain, Feyre gingerly got to her feet, tears cascading down her cheeks, betrayal tugging at her heart, her soul, she turned to Tamlin. She wished she could scream it— _I don’t love you anymore._

But her voice never came. The room was tense with silence. Ianthe stood with a hand on her heart, a look of surprise on her face. Lucien’s kept going back and forth between Tamlin and Feyre, concerned, frustrated. Rhys, oh her kind, loving Rhys, from where he stood, in the same spot Feyre had left him in, looked ready to rip Tamlin to pieces. And Tamlin, he looked completely traumatized by his own actions, as he reached out a hand to Feyre once again.

His voice was a mere whisper this time, when he said her name. “I’m so sorry,” He spoke, but Feyre didn’t care. She didn’t care she didn’t care she didn’t care. She wanted to get out of there. “Feyre,” Tamlin said again, while she looked straight at him, glaring through her tears, “I was angry a-at him, I didn’t mean to—”

Rhys stepped forward. “We’ll be going now,” He said, and Feyre felt relieved to go back to the hell that was Under the Mountain than stay in the Spring Court.

“No,” Tamlin boomed, and Feyre, for the first time, shook with fear.

She was afraid of the man she had once so deeply loved.

“Feyre stays here, where she belongs,” Tamlin said, and then he looked at Hart. “Take her to her room,”—her _room?_ —“lock the door, make sure no one can get in and take her away.”

He wanted to lock her away.

Tamlin wanted to lock her away.

And finally, Feyre broke.

Months and months of claustrophobia with Tamlin, she had dealt with. Months and months of possessiveness, of being treated like a spineless woman, she had dealt with. But to be actually locked up, to actually have her clear feelings undervalued, to be taken away from Rhys—

Feyre slid to her knees, and like a pathetic woman, as Hart grabbed her by the arms, she cried. She cried and cried and reached her arms out to Rhys who stepped forward quickly, reaching out for her as well, expression wild, as if he were afraid of losing her.

And that was when he stopped moving, and he lowered his arm, and a loud pang of hurt hit Feyre, while she struggled against Hart’s grip, until…

Rhys turned his gaze to Tamlin, voice cold, temper controlled, almost frightening. “If you take her now, Tamlin, you’re committing an act of war against Amarantha.”

This was when Hart stopped trying to pull Feyre out of the dining room, when Tamlin’s determined expression faltered, when Ianthe and Lucien’s heads rose in realisation.

Rhys’ voice was uneven, ragged. “If you take her, if you lock her up,” He pointed at Feyre, “You will have a target on your back.”

Tamlin opened his mouth to speak, but Rhys interrupted him. “You didn’t take my offer, but I am doing you a kindness, once again, by reminding you that none of us are strong enough to withstand her. She will hunt you down, she will hunt Feyre down. And you can’t escape Prythian that easy, trust me.”

Hart had let Feyre drop to the ground, but he still held her, and she remained on the floor, a crumbled figure, the pathetic, fragile doll that Tamlin envisioned her to be.

A heavy silence ensued once again as Tamlin stared at Feyre and possibly contemplated his next move, while Rhys looked at Tamlin, face full of desperation. Lucien was the one who spoke first: “Tamlin, let her go,” He said, voice calm, quiet, and Feyre longed to hold him. “We’ll get the money; we’ll bring her home. She’ll live here with us, but you need to let her go. There is no future for us if we go to war against Amarantha.”

Tamlin only stared at Feyre, and she almost curled over herself in fear of the controlled rage that hid behind his eyes. Finally, he spoke, “Hart, let her go.”

And Hart did, but Feyre didn’t move. She felt too weak, too frail, to even crawl towards Rhys, but that was okay, because he came for her instead. Her body responded, timidly, as he bent in front of her, his violet eyes darting all over her face, worried, careful, affectionate. He slid an arm under her knees, and another under her shoulders, and lifted her up with incredible ease, but Feyre wasn’t in the right state of mind to feel self-conscious about how underweight she was. She simply nestled against his chest once he lifted her up, breathing in his scent, taking in every bit of Rhys-ness as possible, the man she wasn’t ready to let go of, the man who…

Who was home.

Feyre only buried her face against his neck as she sobbed, knowing he wouldn’t care that she was dirtying and wetting his expensive clothes. As Rhys got to his feet, Feyre heard him say, “Wise decision, Tamlin,” but his voice sounded distant, empty.

Tamlin’s only reply was, “You lay a finger on her, Rhysand, I’ll murder you.”

But neither Rhys nor Feyre paid any attention to the threat. And as Rhys carried Feyre out of the Spring Court, Feyre cried and broke and crashed and burned, but it was okay because she had Rhys. She had Rhys.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's pretty long too, I'm proud of myself.

Despite feeling like they had spent an eternity in the Spring Court, it was still light outside. Yet, the beauty of Tamlin’s lands didn’t impact Feyre the way they had when she first came in.

Rhys hadn’t said a word as he carried her out. From her view, he looked solemn, with a cool rage swimming under the surface of his face, and somehow, at the same time, he looked… scared.

She had only managed to look at him for a matter of seconds when her overflowing feelings of fear, betrayal, heartbreak, and so many more emotions once again bore down on her, making her once again press her face against Rhys’ neck and cry. Rhys only squeezed her gently, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

Feyre hated the state she was in, especially with so many members of the Spring Court, of Tamlin’s Court, being able to witness her. She felt… weak, broken. She felt the way Tamlin had wanted her to feel. It only made her resent him more.

She didn’t want to come back to the Spring Court.

And if she didn’t, then she had no home, because she couldn’t possibly expect Rhys to take her in, after so much trouble she had been causing him. She couldn’t expect Rhys to take her in, knowing the costs that he would face if he did: possibly some sort of great dispute between him and Tamlin; clearly betraying Amarantha, which would only put the Night Court in harm’s way.

No, she would... She would…

“Let’s not go back to Under the Mountain just yet.”

Rhys was looking down at her now, his face once again reflecting the affection she had missed incredibly while they were in Tamlin’s Court. It swayed her so easily, even in the midst of all the chaos burning inside her, that her hand drifted up to touch his cheek even before her mind had made the decision. Rhys’ skin felt smooth against her palm, and the breath that he seemed to have been holding in blew against her wrist when he let it out. His head inclined towards her touch, his eyes closed, and he spoke: “Seeing as we’re not being followed by Amarantha’s cronies, I think it’s the perfect opportunity to show you the rest of my Court. What do you think?”

Normally, Feyre would have jumped at the opportunity to go back to the mystical wonder that was the Night Court, but in her state… She didn’t want to appear so vulnerable and pathetic when she met the people of Rhysand’s Court.

But she nodded in agreement anyway, because she remembered the look on Rhys’ face when they had visited the Night Court the previous week; how calm and joyous he looked. To make him look like that again, Feyre would do anything, sacrifice anything.

“You’ll love it,” was all Rhys said, before he held her tighter, but gently—a lover’s grasp—and began walking again.

 

* * *

 

 

They had not returned to the massive building on top of mountains that Rhys had taken Feyre to last time, but a smaller, cosier, yet still lavish house.

Feyre and Rhys were standing in its foyer, which was dressed in a gorgeous red carpet, wooden walls and numerous framed artworks. Ahead of them stood a wooden staircase; while to the right, a dining room with a long table fit for several guests; to the left, a comfortable living room with several elegant pieces of furniture, and a fireplace made of marble in what seemed to be Rhys’ signature colour—black; and beyond the staircase, down the hall, were many more doors. Behind them, a wooden door with frosted glass separated them from what seemed to be the main front doors of the house.

“Welcome to my home,” Rhysand said, his voice hushed, against her ear.

There was only silence, except for the two of them, and Feyre realised they were completely alone in the town house. The first time they were ever truly alone together.

As Feyre continued to observe the house, Rhys spoke, “I have brought you to the City of Starlight. This is one of my two houses in the city. The other, I like to keep for official business.  But this one… It’s mainly where I like to stay, and where my family does too.”

 _If you’re so impressed by this, you’re going to love The City of Starlight,_ Rhys had said to her once.

“Mor and I, because of our family, are the only ones who are able to directly enter the house. It’s heavily warded, so you’re safe here, and actually, anywhere in the city.” He didn’t have to say _from Tamlin_ , but Feyre knew he meant it. “Only the people Mor or I, or you, wish may enter the house.”

By the time he had finished speaking, they had ascended the wooden staircase and now stood in the middle of a bright blue hallway, illuminated with glass chandeliers, and with many doors on either sides. Feyre’s eyes flew in every direction, in curiosity and awe, as Rhys carried her through an open door and into a beautiful sunlit room.

The room was simple in a way that it was breathtaking. A massive, fluffy white bed slept in the middle of the room, untouched, ready for company. To Feyre’s right, through a smaller, open door, she got a peek at the bathing room, in which stood a massive claw-footed, marble white tub, behind which were massive windows which twinned the ones inside the room, revealing a gorgeous, walled garden at the back of the house, surrounding an empty water fountain.

“This, my darling, is where you are welcome to live, whenever you decide to visit my Court,” Rhys said, making Feyre’s heart almost jump out of her body.

He had already prepared a room for her.

Rhys wanted her to…

 _You prepared for me_ , Feyre signed with her hands, looking up to Rhys, hoping he would understand; she couldn’t see any pens or paper anywhere, and at that point, was too tired to even put energy into writing.

Rhys watched her hands, eyebrows knitting together, and a few seconds passed, until he nodded his head slowly, glancing away from Feyre and back again. “Yes, I have,” his voice sounded dry.

On top of the confession, the fact that he understood her gestures joyed Feyre. So once again, she signed _, And you’ve been learning too, I see._

This time, the corner of Rhys’ lip quipped up in amusement, and Feyre was glad she had attempted to lighten the mood. “Yes, I have,” Rhys said again, but he didn’t follow with any jest of his own. Feyre frowned, but instead of nudging him, egging him on, she pressed her face against his shoulder, not without noticing the tear and dirt stains she had left on his tunic already.

She lifted her hands to apologise for it, but he spoke before she could, “Would you like to take a nap?”

Feyre would have loved to take a nap. She was beyond drained, and had not slept on a bed in almost a month. The gorgeous, plush white bed ahead of her called her name, and she wanted desperately to disappear within its pillows and blankets, but she thought of how little time they had, of an entire city that lay before them that Feyre had yet to discover. Of a part of Rhys that she had yet to discover, she realised.

So she shook her head no.

Nodding slowly, Rhys asked again, “How about a bath?”

This time, Feyre eyed the bathtub that called her name the same way the bed still did, and immediately nodded. Not only had Feyre been dirty and unbathed in almost a month, but she didn’t want to visit the rest of the city, perhaps meet some more of Rhys’ friends, in the state she was in at the moment.

Rhys carried her to the bathroom and set her down on the edge of the tub. Feyre immediately felt the loss of his touch once he moved a step away, crouching to remain at eye level with her.

So graceful, so thoughtful.

“I’m going to step out for a bit,” He said, his eyes looking straight into Feyre’s own, his thumb and first finger reaching up to gently hold her chin. Feyre only smiled and then nodded. She trusted Rhys. She was safe in the house.

“Take as long a bath as you want, you smell horrid,” Rhys quipped, unexpectedly, and it took Feyre a few good seconds to process his joke, while Rhys only stared at her, a boyish grin on his face—already, being home was already having a good effect on him. Deciding to keep up the lighthearted mood, Feyre made a vulgar gesture at him, her eyes narrowing, her mouth forming a scowl, and Rhys only laughed softly. “I’ll send handmaidens for you,” He said as he began standing up.

 _Handmaidens_.

But before Feyre could say anything, Rhys had kissed her on the forehead and left the room.

 

* * *

 

 

Feyre’s handmaidens were two women named Nuala and Cerridwen, who had appeared in her room when she had stepped out of the bathroom, wearing a bathing robe.

They didn’t have to point out that they were twins, both looking almost the same, with black hair and beady black eyes. They had bowed just slightly when Feyre entered the room, and after introducing themselves as officially being her handmaidens, sat her down and began to dress her.

By the time Feyre had walked back downstairs, dressed rather fashionably, yet comfortably, in a white sweater, thick black pants, a fitting purple coat and a matching pair of shoes, Rhys had already returned, lounging in the living room, his clothes changed to, once again, black, but rid of the stains and imperfections that Feyre had created.

Rhys stood up when she stepped into the living room, eyes slightly wide as he took in her appearance, from her head, where her hair lay in a crowned braid wrapped around her head, all the way down to her feet.

“You look marvelous,” He said, a whisper, in awe and relief.

Feyre almost blushed at the way he was looking at her, even after being subject to his intimate stares countless other times. She raised her hands and signed, _Thank you, Rhys, but you really didn’t have to put up such a fuss._

Rhys only grinned at this, stepping forward and reaching a hand out to her, his fingers brushing against her finally clean cheek. Feyre didn’t feel disgusted in herself, in that moment at least, when he touched her. All the dirt and waste and blood she had been covered in was all gone. She simply smiled when his thumb stroked back and forth on her skin, and pressed a kiss to his palm.

“Of course I did,” Rhys said, “You’re my guest. Besides, through all the shit you’ve gone through, this felt kind of… just a very, very small way of trying to make you feel better.”

Feyre almost melted at his thoughtfulness, and once again signed a thank you.

Rhys grinned. “No need to thank me. Besides, even if you’re in my city for just a few hours, might as well look like you’re going to be living here all your life, while you’re discovering it.” He got closer and closer with every step, and Feyre felt entranced, with the nearness of him, with the thought of actually living here, in the city, even having not seen it, forever.

There was now barely a foot of space between the two of them. Feyre was at eyelevel with Rhys’ collarbone, so she looked up, at his already radiant face, a soft smile resting on his lips that made her feel all kinds of things. She was breathless, so easily moved, despite everything that happened, by the man who stood in front of her, radiating a beautiful sort of darkness. Like nighttime.

“How are you feeling?” Rhys asked, his breath fanning over her face.

 _Better_ , Feyre signed immediately, _Thanks to you._

Rhys only smiled and kissed her forehead. “Ready to go?” He asked. Feyre nodded, and he took her hand in his, fitting perfectly.

“We’ll meet the members of my Court at my other residence now, it’s called the House of Wind. After a meal, I’ll take you to see the rest of Velaris—that’s the more common name for the city.” Feyre only nodded, and followed Rhys as he walked out of the house.

As soon as they stepped out, Feyre was struck with awe at how beautiful the view was. It was simple, yet so incredibly elegant. Bathing in pale winter sunlight, in front of Rhys’ town house was a small garden, rich with dying grass and lined with a high wrought iron gate, which surrounded a border of flower beds. The street beyond them was paved with cobblestones, on which dozens of townsfolk passed by in every direction, in thick winter clothes, hands stuffed into pockets or tucked into gloves, as they hurriedly walked towards their destinations, possibly especially to warm up.

As Rhys opened the gate and gestured for Feyre to pass through, she observed the rest of the city from her position. Rhys’ town house seemed to be on top of a hill, as the street sloped down, lined with many other houses like Rhys’, each with their own gardens and beautiful rooftops and smoking chimneys, and at the foot of the hill, was a gorgeous, crystalline river, that twisted and turned further and merged into what seemed to be the sea, with various ships and birds surrounding the edges of the city.

Feyre could hear the distant sound of laughter, music, and… life. The most happy, peaceful sound of life; a sound she was sure she hadn’t heard in years and years.

“Feyre.”

She had been so enchanted by Rhys’ city, she had stopped paying attention to Rhys himself. She turned to him, where he stood on her left, his hand still enveloping hers, the tip of his pale nose already pink in the cold. He was looking down at her, his face neutral, yet his violet eyes holding a strange sort of sparkle she had never seen before.

Possibly the sparkle of being home.

She gave his hand a squeeze, hoping it would convey that she wished that sparkle remained in his eyes forever. Rhys responded with a squeeze back, and then spoke, his tone suddenly serious, “Feyre, there is something very important you need to know about Velaris.”

Feyre only nodded slowly, pushing closer to Rhys in the midst of the winter wind. Rhys opened up his black coat then, pulling Feyre close and tucking her in under it, letting her share his warmth. She pressed her face against his chest for just a second, before looking up at him, waiting for him to speak. Rhys only smiled softly, his hand coming around her head for his fingers to brush against her cheek—she didn’t mind that they were a little cold—before he turned them around and spoke, “Do you see those mountains over there?” He pointed, looking away from her, and Feyre followed his gaze.

Numerous, gigantic mountains surrounded the edge of Velaris, the sunlight reflecting off their reddish hue, awaiting the river that flowed against them. They were… So strange, so…

“They guard the City of Velaris, from the rest of Prythian,” Rhys said. “Feyre, I brought you here because I trust you.” Feyre’s curiosity spiked, and she tore her eyes away from the mountains, looking up at Rhys, who was once again looking at her.

He seemed to be hesitating, so Feyre only signed, _I trust you too._

Rhys’ smile was only half-lipped. “You see, darling, Velaris is a secret. The Night Court was originally just a Court of Nightmares, a rather horrible place, as you may or may not have heard people say. It has always had a reputation of being the equivalent of Hell.” Feyre would have snorted—she had been living in _Under the Mountain_ for almost a month. “But one of my ancestors had a different idea for it. This was when magic, in its full glory, still existed in the world. He didn’t want his territory, his people, to be vulnerable, so he divided it. He separated his people, keeping the worst in the Court of Nightmares, also called Hewn City, while he built Velaris, the Court of Dreams, for people, I like to believe, like you and I.

“The city is protected by thousands of wards and spells, and all of his descendants have kept it a secret over centuries, the way I do now. We trade with others, but they’re spelled so they never reveal anything about the city. Random travelers find themselves turning away if they’re near here. All to protect these people, these dreamers and artists.”

Feyre was between awe and agitation. If this city stood, while people suffered outside… But Rhys was already answering, as if having read her thoughts, “You may think ill of me, keeping this city a secret, happy, while the rest of Prythian is in ruins because of Amarantha, but… I would do anything to protect my home, Feyre, and the people I love. It was a difficult decision to make, not to reach out and help others, but as this city’s High Lord, I think it was a good decision for such a short notice.”

Feyre looked simply took one look around the city, and then looked up at Rhysand, who looked anxious as he stared down at her, lips parted slightly, breathing slightly hitched. But Feyre only smiled, and signed, _Thank you for sharing this with me. I promise I will keep your secret._

Rhys’ expression burst with utter joy, lips stretching in a bright grin, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. It made Feyre’s heart race; how easily Velaris made him happy… She wanted him to be that happy for the rest of his life.

“One last thing, Feyre darling,” Rhys said, and he stepped back, immediately leaving Feyre victim to the cold, but she looked up at him in curiosity nonetheless, and her heart stopped.

Rhys was still there, as graceful as always, a little playful grin on his beautiful face, standing up straight. And behind him, stretched two glorious, massive black wings—membranous, Feyre realised, as the sunlight behind him shone through them. The wings tipped forward at their apexes, which had just singular, large claws on each. They seemed to flex, and Feyre realised Rhys was indeed stretching them—a part of him, the same way his arms were.

Feyre stood stunned. Everything, everything she had seen was so enchantingly beautiful, but this… This was so unexpected. So terrifying yet so gorgeous.

“I hope you’re not afraid.” Rhys’ voice had a hint of amusement in it.

Feyre managed to shake her head.

“Good,” Rhys said, holding his hands out for her, and Feyre took them. “These are the remnants of whatever creatures we once were, during ancient times,” Rhys explained. “This is the only bit of magic that truly remains among all of us, now. Although, my case is slightly different. While Tamlin is able to fully transform into… whatever he transforms to…” Rhys’ expression held distaste, “Because of his lineage, my abilities come more strongly from me being half Illyrian—” Feyre raised her hands to ask a question, but Rhys had already started answering—“That’s a warrior race that lives among this Court.”

Rhys stepped forward and bent slightly, his wing just inches away from Feyre’s face, but before she could reach out a hand to touch it, his arms had positioned beneath her knees and back and scooped her up into his arms. She held back her silent gasp of surprise, but didn’t complain as Rhys tucked her in close against his chest. “You see, Feyre darling,” He said, his tone even more teasing now, “I’m quite the bastard. Perhaps in more ways than one.”

 _I agree_ , Feyre teased back, her hands signing, before reaching up and wrapping around Rhys’ neck. When her finger brushed against the peach skin-like flesh of his wing, Rhys shivered and Feyre watched his face as he turned them around, facing where they were initially facing, and momentarily loosed the arm around her back to point ahead. “You see those mountains? The middle peak, that’s where we are going now. The House of Wind.” Feyre turned her head and looked where Rhys was pointing. A darker array of mountains stood around Velaris there, each with what seemed to be holes and windows carved into the stone near the peaks.

“Feyre, do you trust me?”

She could feel Rhys looking at her, and she turned her head to face him, nodding to him quickly. She trusted him, she realised, with her life.

Rhys’ grin was insanely boyish, and he gripped her tightly. “Perfect,” He said, and before Feyre could inquire further, they shot into the sky.

Feyre let out a silent squeak, and she felt Rhys’ hold tighten around her. “It’s alright, I’ve got you,” She heard him whisper into her ear, and it more than calmed her. Taking a deep breath, Feyre opened her eyes—she hadn't even realised she had closed them—and at first, looked down at the city. Velaris looked as beautiful, with its hues of white and blue and green and _life_ , as it did from the ground. The city’s sounds couldn’t be heard, though, only the sweeping of the winter wind against her face, and the flapping of Rhys’ strong wings. This was when she looked up at Rhys, who seemed to have been observing her, a gentle smile on his face.

Feyre mirrored it, as she took in the sight of Rhys in his winged glory. What a majestic creature, this man was.

She understood why Rhys’ second home was called the House of Wind, because as soon as they were nearing it, they were met with a harsh current, blowing them away from their destination, but Rhys held on strong, skilled, familiar with the atmosphere, as, with just slight difficulty, he flew them to a vast marble-lined balcony, at the far end of which stood two massive glass doors. With incredible skill, Rhys dropped down onto the balcony, as if he had just taken a step down on a staircase.

“Welcome to the House of Wind, Feyre darling,” He said as he let her down. As Feyre straightened her clothes, she was beyond grateful for Nuala and Cerridwen for having braided her hair so tightly; she didn’t want to think of the glorious mess it would have been in had it been open. A glance at Rhys gave her a vague idea; even his short black hair was sticking out in every direction in the wind, making Feyre burst into silent giggles, making Rhys look at her, baffled, until she reached up to tame his hair.

The intense look of fondness that Rhys pinned her with as she did so, made her insides go warm, but their moment of intimacy was broken at the sound of the glass doors behind them opening, and a strong, male voice booming from inside, “Hurry up you prick!”

Followed by a familiar voice—Mor’s—chiding, “Cassian! He’s… Oh, you just had to ruin it, didn’t you?”

Rhys’ expressions had brightened even more, more than Feyre had thought possible. He smiled down at Feyre. “You’re about to meet two incredible bastards, now.”

“I heard that!” The same male voice said from inside, and Rhys only shook his head, reaching down to take Feyre’s hand and escorting her into the house. From outside, Feyre could see a grand dining room, a long, long table made of expensive wood.

A male stood at the threshold of the room, extremely tall, broad shouldered, dark hair coming down to his shoulders, with a broad smirk on his face. He was wearing what seemed to be fighting attire, made of leather and straps for weapons. He had wings, the same as Rhys’, which stretched behind him against the glass door as he leaned against it, arms crossed on his chest, as he looked at Rhys and Feyre.

“Bastard Number One,” the male introduced, the one who had been speaking to them earlier, as he demonstrated an exaggerated bow, his smile not leaving his face. Rhys snorted and let go of Feyre’s hand, instead placing it against her back.

“This is Cassian, the commander of my armies,” Rhys said, and Cassian straightened up.

“Brother,” Cassian said, and enveloped Rhys in a hug. The strange hug of males, when they patted each other’s back’s. Not wanting to intrude on their moment, Feyre looked away, toward the room, and noticed another male approaching them.

This male, like Rhys and Cassian, was also dark haired and had mighty wings stretching behind him, and like Cassian, he was wearing leather fighting gear. He had strange shadows dancing around his body, which would have made Feyre recoil had she not known he was a friend of Rhys’. Just slightly smaller than Cassian himself, and with a more neutral, yet happy look on his face, as he approached them, this man’s aura was much more… reserved… than Cassian’s open, fun one. He seemed understandable yet unreadable at the same time. He came and stood next to Cassian, who, excitedly said, “Ah! Bastard Number Two.”

Bastard Number Two only rolled his eyes, before looking at Feyre and speaking, in a low voice, “Welcome to our city,” He said, and extended a hand—scarred and burnt—to her, which Feyre, pushing down her curiosity, took. He squeezed gently, and then let go.

“This is Azriel, my spymaster,” Rhys explained. Feyre wasn’t shocked at this title; it seemed appropriate for Azriel and his overall presence. As Azriel and Rhys embraced, Mor approached them, a bright smile on her face, clad in a beautiful blue dress.

“Feyre!” She greeted, immediately reaching out and taking her hand. Feyre smiled back, genuinely, brightly.  “Come,” Mor said, pulling Feyre past the threshold and into the dining room, “Let’s leave the men to their emotions.”

“Oh sure, Mor, say that the next time you—”

“Mor, Cassian, this is the only time we’re getting to see Rhys until Mother knows how long. Don’t,” Azriel warned, and Mor visibly straightened up in front of Feyre.

“Right,” She said, “No fighting today. For Rhys and Feyre.” She lightly touched Azriel’s shoulder, which, Feyre noticed, made him ease up, his wings fluttering slightly behind him.

“Let’s sit,” Mor said, “Amren should be here soon, and we’ll start eating then.” She guided Feyre to the dining table, where a fine lunch of roasted chicken and bread rested. Mor sat down on a high backed chair, and patted the one next to her, where Feyre sat down. She felt strangely comfortable.

“I’m starving,” Mor said, “If only everyone would hurry up.”

As if on cue, the three males strode into the room, at the same time as Amren, whose light footsteps grew louder from the background as she approached the table.

Cassian’s head rose. “Ah, Tiny Ancient One,” He greeted, following with another sarcastic bow, before he took a seat across from Mor, his wings fitting perfectly against the chair—which, Feyre realised, had been fashioned to accommodate Illyrian wings.

Amren snapped her teeth at Cassian, while Rhys took a seat next to Feyre, and Azriel the one across from Rhys. “I would suggest keeping your mouth shut, Commander,” Amren said, “Lest you forget that my height does not put me at any disadvantage to put you in your place.” As she spoke, she took a seat across from Feyre, between Cassian and Azriel. “Hello, Feyre,” She greeted, and Feyre smiled her hello back.

“You also forget, Amren, that I can—”

“Oh for Mother’s sake, just _eat_ ,” Mor interjected, “I’m starving! And I’m sure Feyre and Rhys are too.”

“Yes, yes,” Cassian shook his head, and everyone started to dig into their meals. Feyre was glad she couldn’t speak, because one bite of her chicken would have had her moaning.

But Cassian’s silence hadn’t lasted too long. “Mor,” He said, “Why do you still serve Amren food?—Well, I’m not really complaining,” He said, as he picked up Amren’s plate and scraped half of its contents onto his own plate, “Since there’s more for me.” He passed the half empty plate to Azriel, who sent an apologetic look towards Amren before taking the rest of the food.

Feyre must have had a confused look on her face, because Rhys explained, “Amren doesn’t eat… mundane food.” A smirk played at Amren’s lips, as she picked up a goblet, with thick red liquid, thicker than the wine they were drinking, and took a sip from it.

Mor groaned. “Let’s not talk about it while we’re eating.”

“You see, Feyre,” Cassian said, “I like to think Amren’s food habits are a reflection of how evil she really is.” He grinned, sending a wink to his left, in Amren’s direction, who simply glared at him.

“Remember what I said about keeping your mouth—” Amren started, at the same time Azriel warned, “Cassian.”

“Oh, how I love our family meals,” Rhys drawled, shaking his head. Family. Of course these people would be his family, his home. “What sort of impression are you lot putting out for our guest?” Despite sounding like he was chiding them, Rhys’ tone held the delicate melody of joy.

“Of course, High Lord,” Amren said, and leaned back, sending one last nasty look towards Cassian, who only grinned further.

“I’m apologise on these children’s behalf, Feyre,” Azriel said, a soft chuckle of an undertone in his voice. Feyre only grinned. She was amused to be seeing this interaction among Rhysand’s friends.

“Firstly, I’m offended, Az,” Cassian remarked, “And secondly, Rhys, you need to have more family lunches.” He pointed his fork towards Rhys. “Why don’t you come see your dear brothers anymore?”

Rhys only rolled his eyes in reply, and Feyre somehow found the courage to raise her hands and sign, _Perhaps because you’re a busybody who makes people want to kill you_. She made sure she grinned as she did so, to ensure she was only making jokes.

Rhys’ eyes sparkled, and his expression grew more amused, as he studied her hands, and then he let out a breathy laugh.

“Oh great, they’re speaking among each other now,” Cassian teased.

“Actually, Cassian,” Rhys said, grinning broadly, “Feyre darling was talking to you. She says you’re a busybody who makes people want to kill you.”

Feyre immediately felt bad, hoping she hadn’t offended Cassian, but he only leaned back against his chair and howled in laughter, while Mor, Azriel and Amren joined with their chuckles.

“I take back what I said, Rhys,” Cassian said in between laughter, “You need to have more family lunches, but you must bring Feyre along to all of them.”

Feyre’s heart warmed at his comment, and she sent a bright smile in Cassian’s direction. She felt Rhys’ hand, his free one, gently touch her back. She felt so comfortable, so joyed, even after everything that had happened.

It was Mor’s turn to speak now. “Of course Feyre will come along,” She said, and then turned to look at Feyre, “She’s one of us now.”

Feyre’s fork and knife dropped out of her hands, clanking against her plate. Her heart wrenched, and she felt her breath hitch. _One of them_. One of the five intriguing, amazing people surrounding her at that table, already family, opening their doors for _her_ , a nobody, a—

“Of course she is,” Rhys said from her other side, his lips pressing against the top of her head, his hand squeezing her shoulder.

 

* * *

 

 

Velaris was the most beautiful place Feyre had ever laid eyes on.

There was not a single corner, no small nook, that was boring. Rhys explained, as the rest of his Inner Circle walked behind them, that the city had four main market squares called Palaces, two on each side of the Sidra River.

“We only have enough time for you to see the Southern squares today, I’m afraid,” Rhys said, his hands tucked into his pockets as he walked with Feyre. “Someday, Feyre darling,” He raised a hand, stroking it against her cheek, making her lean her head against his touch, “Someday, you can be here to discover my city day after day. Someday, you can be here to see Velaris when it is at its peak beauty, at night.”

Feyre only smiled and nodded, before signing, _I would love to_.

Rhys and his Circle took Feyre to two market squares. The first, was the Palace of Thread and Jewels, a beautiful market of white stone, lined with high pillars that supported numerous intricately carved buildings. This square sold clothes, jewelry, materials for them, and also held small tea shops here and there. Shops sold the most enchanting, expensive, rare looking materials and items, some which Feyre had recognised from Rhys and Mor’s typical lavish attire—and her own, the ones Mor had picked out for her.

Amren had stopped at nearly every jewelry store, only momentarily peeking in through the window, making a face which either showed she was impressed or disinterested, before rejoining the rest of the group, when Cassian or even Mor made a little quip at her, which she fired back at quickly.

Rhys looked so happy, just by being at home, being around his bickering family; it warmed Feyre’s heart.

People walked by, smiled and waved at the Circle, bowed for everyone, including, Feyre realised, herself. It was such an odd treatment, something she had not been used to.

The second market was called the Palace of Bone and Salt, selling all sorts of food items ranging from meat to produce to herbs, all their smells mingling together in the open air of the market. Even despite eating her stomach full, Feyre found that she somehow had space in her stomach to eat more—the scents of the Palace of Bone and Salt were breathtaking.

Cassian had indeed stopped at several little shops, commenting to vendors about how delightful their food smelled, often receiving free samples of the food to share with the Circle. Feyre’s expectations of how good the food would taste had been exceeded—the small bites of fruit, cooked fish and meat, baked goods and sweets she had tasted were spellbinding.

However, the most breathtaking moment had been when Feyre and the Circle had approached what Rhys announced was the artists’ quarter. Hundreds of galleries, stores selling art supplies, sculptor’s gardens surrounded them, all sorts of colours exploding through the area.

“Velaris is most famous for this place,” Rhys said, his hand on Feyre’s back. “We call it the Rainbow of Velaris. You see that hill? That is where all of our musicians and performers—all our artists—live, a perfect distance from the theatre, naturally. That golden bit at the top of the hill, that’s Velaris’ most famous theatre, and—Oh, hold on, I have just a minute of business, Feyre darling.”

But Feyre wasn’t paying attention, as Rhys kissed her forehead and walked away. She was busy staring at every corner of the Rainbow of Velaris, suddenly feeling like… like she belonged. Like this could be a place she could someday…

No, no she wasn’t worthy of it.

So instead she looked around, she thought of all the paintings she could do, inspired by this beautiful city, but only felt empty. Hollow.

Inspiration called for her, tugged at her heart, but inside she was… gone. That artist, the one who sat in a little apartment all day and painted, her hands and clothes covered in colour, as she waited for her lover to return home, as she waited to show him her newest work, as she painted and painted and painted… That artist was gone.

“Here.”

Rhys was back, his hand gently grasping Feyre’s own. This made her jump out of her thoughts, and she turned slowly towards him, where he stood, holding out a small package, wrapped in a simple brown paper. Feyre felt a blush creeping up on her cheeks, and was suddenly very conscious of the four people who stood behind them, watching their exchange.

 _Rhys_ , She signed _, You didn’t have to get me anything._

Rhys smiled, his hand coming up once again and touching her cheek. In the background, Feyre heard Cassian mumble something, followed by an “oomph” as someone—possibly Mor—hit him somewhere.

“I know I didn’t,” Rhys said, “But I wanted to. Go on and open it.” He put the package in Feyre’s hands.

Obediently, cautiously, Feyre began working at the brown paper covering the light item that she held. Slowly ripping away the paper (which Rhys took from her, and from the corner of Feyre’s eye she noticed him ball it up and throw it at Cassian), she observed her present.

It was a small satchel made of a dark blue coloured leather, the same shade as the hallway in Rhys’ town house, with a flap on its face, at the bottom of which, her name was engraved: _Feyre Archeron_. When Feyre lifted the flap, her heart stopped—the thoughtfulness, the clear care that was put into the satchel made tears prick her eyes. On the satchel was attached a notepad, made of a beautiful white parchment, each leaf with her initials _F.A._ inscribed onto the bottom right corner. Straps next to the pad held two identical pens, with matching _F.A_. inscriptions on their sides in silver, bright against the dark blue colour of the metal.

Breathless, Feyre looked up at Rhysand, who was observing her, pensive, anxious, his bottom lip in between his teeth. “Do… Do you like it?” He asked, his voice hushed.

Feyre only untied the rope holding the strap of the satchel as a reply, slinging it around her shoulder, while Rhys watched in silence, before she tackled Rhys in a tight bone-crushing hug, pressing her face into his chest, her tears once again wetting his coat. A long breath escaped her lips as she felt Rhys’ arms snake around her, pulling her tightly against him. She felt his rapidly beating heart against her face, his hand stroking against her back, his very presence that she loved so, so much. In that small moment, Feyre let herself be happy.

Small mumblings in the background indicated that the Circle were trying to give them their space. Not wanting to seem like she was keeping Rhys away from his family, she pulled back, and threw a bright smile up at him, which he returned. Raising a hand to wipe away Feyre’s tears, Rhys asked, voice still hushed, “Feyre, do you think that… after all this mess with Amarantha is over, when you’re free… Do you think you could come live here? Do you think you could call Velaris your home?”

Home. The one thing Feyre longed for but didn’t have. The one thing she had lost repeatedly her entire life, the one thing she yearned for.

And she looked around, at the Rainbow of Velaris, at the River Sidra, at the people walking around the city, happy, in peace. She looked at Rhysand’s Inner Circle, Rhysand’s family, who were standing a few feet away from them, speaking among themselves yet occasionally glancing in their direction. Finally she looked up at Rhys; selfless, thoughtful Rhys, who had done so much for his city, his people, for his family, for her.

So she picked up her satchel, unlatched a pen, and scribbled onto her notepad, dark blue ink spelling out the words: _I would love nothing more. Thank you_.

When she showed it to Rhys, his smile was so broad it was almost comical.

But it didn’t last, because Rhys looked past Feyre, to the horizon, his expression suddenly falling, a frown plastered on his face much too quickly. Feyre turned to look at what he was seeing.

The setting sun, halfway down the horizon.

“Time to go, Feyre darling,” Rhys said, his voice incredibly distant. Feyre only nodded slowly, and walked towards the Circle, Rhys at her heel.

From one look at them, Mor must have known it was time, because she pulled Feyre close in the same tight hug that twinned the hug she had given her a week ago. Feyre hugged her tightly back. Her friend, Mor was her friend. “Come back soon, please,” Mor said, and Feyre only nodded in reply.

When they pulled back and watched the males, Cassian was clapping Rhys on the back, the three of them mumbling their goodbyes. Rhys’ wings had disappeared, Feyre noticed.

Amren only patted Feyre’s shoulder. “Goodbye, Feyre, I hope we get to see you as soon as possible,” She said, and Feyre smiled. She hoped so too.

As the women approached the men, Azriel nodded towards Feyre, the ghost of a sentimental smile on his lips. “Stay strong in there, Feyre,” He said, as Rhys reached down and took her hand.

Cassian pinned Feyre with a soft smile, which she returned, before he turned to Rhys. “Bring her home, brother,” He said.

Rhys nodded in reply. “Until we see each other again.”

And as the two of them started magically walking away, Feyre said a silent goodbye to Velaris, to her new home.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Feyre had been so caught up in the enchanting beauty of Velaris and Rhys and his—her friends, she had forgotten the nightmare that awaited her in Under the Mountain.

Rhys had walked her back to her cell the previous night, had dinner with her, held back her hair while she vomited, and tucked her in under the blanket he had given her, while she used her new satchel as a pillow. As usual, they struggled to say goodbye, and even after kissing her forehead, whispering, “Goodnight my darling,” Rhys hovered over her, his face still close to hers, both unwilling to be apart. But Feyre nudged him slightly, not wanting him to stay down in the dungeon for so long as it was getting dangerously late. So Rhys simply kissed her forehead again and exited, waking up the guard he had stunned earlier, on his way.

He hadn’t shown up for breakfast that morning, but it seemed as if he had made sure that Feyre got delivered a good meal instead of what the people in Under the Mountain served her. On a small silver tray was piled a stack of fresh toast, accompanied by two small bowls holding butter and jam, and a tall glass of what Feyre believed was pumpkin juice.

Feyre had waited a good few minutes, during which the cold turned the toast stale, for Rhys to join her, before digging into her breakfast. She knew he wouldn’t be coming, not for breakfast at least, or he would have personally brought the food to her, but a part of her—a big part of her—was hopeful. But, realising she had a big day ahead of her, she began to eat. Only when she lifted a piece of toast did she notice that a note was hidden under the pile. Carefully sliding it out, making sure she didn’t topple over the pile of toast, Feyre dusted off the crumbs on the slightly damp folded parchment and leaned back, in subtle excitement, to read it:

Inside Rhys’ familiar, neat handwriting, said, _My apologies for not being able to have breakfast with you today, Feyre darling. I’m rather busy, but I promise I will be there for lunch. – R._

Feyre smiled to herself at Rhys’ thoughtfulness, of him actually putting in the effort to let her know he wouldn’t be able to join her. Eating her breakfast, repeatedly going over the note, wishing Rhys were there, Feyre thought of the countless times she had awoken in the morning and Tamlin hadn’t been in bed with her, already gone with no warning; often, he wouldn’t even come home, and Feyre would sleep alone in their massive bed.

But Feyre stopped herself before she got too far thinking about Tamlin. She needed to stop comparing Tamlin and Rhys. It wasn’t that Rhys was better—well, he was—but Rhys was Rhys: good, flawless, breathtakingly enchanting, all on his own.

Tamlin… Tamlin, she had decided, belonged in her past, now.

So instead of giving it further thought, Feyre finished her breakfast and decided to read a book until Rhys showed up in the afternoon.

 

* * *

 

As promised, Rhys showed up for lunch, carrying a tray of food for Feyre. As usual, she felt his presence before she could see or hear him, and she sat up from her curled up reading position on the floor to greet him, a bright smile on her face in spite of knowing what day it was.

But her smile faded as soon as Rhys stepped into view, as soon as she took him in and realised he was unhappy. Rhys’ steps were slow, hesitant, and his head hung low, his black hair falling over his face, concealing his beautiful features. The fact that he didn’t look at her, that he didn’t smile his charming smile, that he didn’t greet her with a “Good afternoon, Feyre darling,” only added onto the grey aura that he radiated.

He set the tray of food down on the stone floor in front of Feyre, but he didn’t sit down. When Feyre looked up at him, his face was still hidden behind a veil of his hair, now looking to his left, away from her.

Without thinking much of it, Feyre reached a hand up and took Rhys’ own one, which hung limp at his side, warm, shaking slightly, only easing down when she squeezed it. She continued looking up at him, but he didn’t look at her. Feyre shuffled to her knees then, so she came up higher, just below his hips, and she took Rhys’ other hand as well, still with no reaction from him, and brought them both to her lips, peppering light kisses over every inch of his pale knuckles. She heard Rhys’ breath hitch from above her, and finally, he spoke, his voice shaky: “Oh, darling.”

Feyre looked up at him again, and he was finally looking down at her, his expression pained, his lips set in a deep frown, violet eyes glassy. He loosed a hand from her grip, and Feyre closed her eyes as she felt his fingers brush her cheek, spreading warmth through her cold skin. This was so familiar; their unspoken bond, the little moments they had in this horrid, nasty smelling cell, the only sound being the far off _tap tap tap_ of leaking water somewhere in the dungeon. Feyre got intoxicated by these moments.

But this moment was different. Because Rhys was upset, troubled. Because Rhys, his voice barely audible, spoke, “I am so sorry, Feyre.”

Startled, Feyre’s eyes opened, and she looked up at Rhys once again, her face twisting up in confusion. Rhys looked away from her, before he finally moved to sit down, planting himself on the floor, leaning back against the uneven wall of Feyre’s cell, stretching his legs out. Rhys usually sat with his legs crossed, his back straight, always with so much ease and grace; yet, now, he sat like he was exhausted, drained: slouched against the wall, head tilted towards the side, learning back, arms heavy at his sides, his eyes so incredibly distant, and that beautiful smile that Feyre loved so much… gone.

Feyre shifted closer to him, still on her knees, and then sat back when she got close enough to him, pressed up completely against his side, her arms sliding around his shoulders, her hand gently easing his head onto her shoulder, which he obliged much too easily—his submissiveness was too much, too unlike him, but he needed her. Everyday, Rhys held her, comforted her, but today he needed to be held and comforted, and Feyre was more than willing to provide for him.

But she also needed to know what was bothering him—why he had apologised to her—so she stretched an arm out, for the satchel he had gifted her the previous day, and grabbed it by the strap, pulling it to her. She undid the flap, one arm still braced around Rhys, whose nose was nuzzling against her neck, making her skin hot, while she wrote down on a fresh leaf: _Why are you sorry? What’s the matter?_ and held it in front of Rhys.

Rhys’ responded by taking in a deep, loud breath, letting it out, and then pulling away from Feyre, making her immediately miss his touch. He turned so the two of them were facing each other, both their legs crossed now. Rhys still looked deeply disturbed, almost hesitant to speak to her, as he reached out and took her hands in his, which she squeezed, studying his face, as he stared her directly in the eyes.

“Feyre, you know what day it is today, don’t you?” Rhys asked, and Feyre nodded in response. It was torture day. It was the day she would have to see Amarantha again and resist the urge to claw her eyes out with her chipped, uneven, dirty nails.

Rhys squeezed Feyre’s hands again, gently, and looked down at his lap before looking up at her again; hesitant, unsure. Feyre brushed her thumbs against the side of his hands to comfort him, to encourage him to go on. So he took another deep breath and went on. “I… I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing you like that again, Feyre, and of having to sit there and act like I’m enjoying myself while she does that to you… I-I…” His voice waved, and he shook his head. Feyre’s heart broke at the sight of him, suddenly looking so fragile, so unlike the image of himself he set up.

“I missed out on breakfast with you today,” Rhys continued, suddenly sounding so much like an innocent, cautious boy, “To go see Amarantha. I thought… I thought, somehow, I could convince her to stop this, to not put you through this. Everything…” He sighed, “It’s all Tamlin’s fault, and she’s making you pay for it just because you love him.”

He struggled saying the last bit.

Feyre wanted to raise her hands to sign to Rhys that she didn’t love Tamlin anymore, that she never wanted to go back to the Spring Court, to see Tamlin, but she decided against it; letting Rhys know how she felt was not a priority at the moment. So she watched him as he spoke, so incredibly pained.

“I couldn’t think of anything convincing to say about why I want her to stop,” Rhys said. “I couldn’t think of anything that would go well with the sadist she thinks I am. What else is there to say except that it isn’t fair?” Rhys’ expression was wild with rage for just a second. “So I told her exactly that: that it isn’t fair, that it should be Tamlin she should be punishing directly, that it was cruel of her not to even let someone heal you or take care of you or…” Rhys pulled Feyre’s hands, still in his own, to his face, pressing them against his eyes. Feyre felt just small beads of moisture against her palms. “Feyre, I’m so, so sorry,” Rhys said, still pressing Feyre’s hands against his face, “I was only trying to help you… She… She just got angrier; angry that I’m defending you, angry that I’m opposing her. She… She’s going to make today worse, Feyre, to punish me. To punish me by hurting you and… I don’t know what to do, Feyre, I’m so sorry. I tried. I-I—”

But Rhys stopped talking, because Feyre had pulled her hands away from him and instead wrapped her arms around his neck, shifting closer to him once again, on her knees, and pressing her face against his shoulder. Anxiety and terror had already built up in her as soon as she took in the fact that she would be facing something worse than Attor and his claws that day, but she knew she would make it through. She would make it through so she could see Velaris again. So she could see Mor and Amren and Cassian and Azriel again. She would make it through so she could tell Tamlin how she really felt.

She would make it through so she could tell Rhys how she really felt.

So she only clung to Rhys, held him, and was relieved when his strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him, his face pressing against her neck. She wished she could speak, to tell him she was grateful he had tried, like he had always tried for her, and that he didn’t need to worry, because she would fight Amarantha as long as she had him.

Instead, she pulled back, kissed Rhys’ forehead, and as he still held her, she signed to him _, It’s alright. You were only trying to help. It’s not your fault, Rhys._

Oh, she would sacrifice anything to be able to say his name.

Rhys stared at her hands as they moved, looking extremely tired, upset, his cheeks wet with tears, lips parted slightly. He only gave her a short nod in response, still looking at her hands, and Feyre leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek, kissing his tears away, before following suit with his other cheek, the same way he had kissed her tears away.

Rhys’ grip on her tightened, just slightly. Feyre curled herself up on his lap, letting Rhys move his arms around her once again. Resting her head against his chest, Feyre picked up her writing set, and carefully, slowly wrote to him, _There is nothing to be done now, but that’s okay._

Rhys only breathed slowly, his chest rising and falling against Feyre’s body. It was so strange to not have him respond immediately with a charming comment. Instead, he mumbled into her ear, slightly muffled by her hair, “What now?”

Feyre wrote, _Just hold me._

So Rhys held her. And when he reached forward for Feyre’s food, now gone cold, and brought a spoonful of mashed potatoes to her lips, Feyre didn’t oppose. She needed her strength. So she relaxed, just for a moment, against Rhys, while he quietly fed her, her meal.

 

* * *

 

 

Rhys and Feyre had separated as soon as they heard guards enter the dungeon. While they approached, Rhys helped Feyre stand up straight, before combing his fingers through her knotted hair. The guards were just outside Feyre’s cell door now, but they didn’t come in. Of course they didn’t; the fear of the wrath of the High Lord of the Night Court held them back.

Rhys looked Feyre dead in the eyes as he tucked a finger under her chin and raised it slightly, a little smirk on his face—already. He was acting already. “Chin up, Feyre darling,” He said, his voice hushed, “Don’t let her think you’re weak. Not even for a moment.”

The man who spoke to here was currently a mix of the man she really knew, and the man everyone else thought he was.

Feyre nodded in response, straightening her back and lifting her chin as Rhys pulled away from her. She belonged to the Night Court now, and she would fight for it.

“What are you two idiots standing there for?” Rhys snapped, almost frightening, as he and Feyre turned to the guards. They looked puzzled for a moment, looking between each other, before one of them responded, “Milord, it’s time—”

“I’ll be escorting the prisoner to the throne room,” Rhys said, his tone suddenly cool, as he slid his hands into his pockets. “You all are rather incompetent anyway.”

The guards only nodded, like idiots, just as Rhys had said, and turned away, walking towards the exit. Feyre felt Rhys’ hand brush hers, but she didn’t move to hold it—it wasn’t the time. So instead, she followed him, head held high, as he walked out of her cell.

Feyre followed Rhys through the numerous tunnels and passageways and makeshift staircases, always a step behind him in the narrow space, his silent, deadly presence still giving her even a feeble amount of comfort. When they approached the large ancient doors of the throne room, now guarded by two men on either side, Rhys came to a halt, holding himself up with such grace. Feyre came into step right next to him, fighting the urge to turn her head and look up at him.

That was when the guards had reached over and opened the large doors, exposing Feyre and Rhys to a crowd much, much larger than those of the previous weeks, all seated across sloping stone benches lining the walls of the room, in between the pillars. The loud chatter that rang amongst the crowd died down as soon as Feyre and Rhys stepped into the room, all heads turning to face them instead.

Feyre heard murmurs, several of them judging her— _she’s so thin, she’s so small, the High Lord of Spring is in love with_ her? _So_ this _is the girl who has been creating such a fuss around Prythian_ —but what surprised her the most was how they were reacting to Rhys, even despite knowing that people didn’t really like him outside the Night Court. People pinned Rhys with looks of disgust, sneered at him, called him names in hushed voices, accused him of being a whore, a murderer, a dog—it made Feyre’s blood boil.

So she turned her attention away, eased her body, and looked straight ahead to where Amarantha sat in a flamboyant golden gown, a smirk playing at her lips, seated on her high throne right next to… to…

 _Tamlin_.

Feyre hoped her moment of wavering went unnoticed by everyone. _Don’t let her think you’re weak_ , Rhys had said. So she walked on, trying to mimic the ease at which Rhys walked next to her, staring Tamlin straight in the eye, her face a mask of coldness and impassiveness, while Tamlin’s held confusion and distress.

Feyre wondered what sort of a statement she was unintentionally making—lover of the High Lord of the Spring Court, walking side by side his enemy, the High Lord of the Night Court, dressed in gorgeous Night Court attire.

But her thoughts came to a halt when she and Rhys reached Amarantha’s dais and Rhys bowed to her, in his charming and cunning tone, saying, “Milady.”

Amarantha ignored this, and instead chirped, “Ah, the entertainment is here! Welcome, Feyre. Oh how I’ve missed you. And of course Tamlin has missed you too! Which is why I’ve invited him to join us tonight.” She gestured a thin, white arm towards Tamlin, but Feyre only kept her gaze pinned on Amarantha herself.

But Feyre’s resistance only amused Amarantha further, because a smirk grew across her blood red lips and she looked at someone behind Feyre. “Shackle her around the post,” She said.

Feyre’s confusion rose at the same time as Tamlin sat up in his seat, growling, “What—”

“Ah!” Amarantha said, to shush him, pressing a hand against Tamlin’s chest. Feyre froze, just in surprise, as she felt a pair of hands—normal, fleshy, not like Attor’s—grab her from behind, pulling her back somewhere. Feyre tore her eyes away from Amarantha this time, only to cast a quick glance towards Rhys, whose back was to her now as he walked away from the dais, towards the rest of the crowd.

Feyre turned her head to look at where she was being dragged, while the crowd around her continued to murmur. Just as Feyre eyed the post, a long wooden improvised pillar that stood in the center of the room, Amarantha spoke, her horrible voice echoing through the throne room, “You see, Tamlin dear, this is what your Feyre will be going through every week until you pay me my money. Ten whips only, because I feel pity for her fragile soul”—Tamlin growled, while the crowd’s chatter grew—“And, should you not attend every week, your due sum will only continue increasing, and Feyre will only be stuck here for longer.”

Feyre’s heart almost stopped. She knew her mask had fallen—she was no longer expressionless, no longer holding herself up straight, eased. But she couldn’t bring it back up. She couldn’t. Not when she was suddenly being pushed under the weight of her thoughts, of her sudden fears—whips, they would hurt, but she could have handled; she had known, with Rhys’ warning, that her torture method would end up being worse, but to have Tamlin’s debts increasing…

Tamlin was indolent. Tamlin was selfish. He hadn’t even covered up enough to get her out in the first place, and Feyre knew there was a great chance he wouldn’t show up the following weeks and she would end up being stuck in Under the Mountain.

She could be stuck in Under the Mountain forever. She could die there. She could end up never being home—being in Velaris—again, in that beautiful room in Rhys’ town house. She could end up never seeing Mor and Amren and Cassian and Azriel again. She could never help them rescue Rhys, rescue Prythian. She could never tell Rhys how much she—

Her fate depended absolutely, completely, on Tamlin.

And she hated knowing that. Feyre knew she was strong. Rhys insisted, Rhys knew she was strong. But it came to no use, no advantage in her situation. There was no way to overthrow Amarantha. She suddenly felt as weak as she had been feeling the previous day at the Spring Court. She let Amarantha’s cronies pull her close to the post, she let them force her down to her knees as Tamlin’s various threats to Amarantha echoed in the background. Feyre let Amarantha’s people forcefully pull her arms around the post, making the side of her face slam into the splintery wood, scratching her skin, making the side of her head blaze in pain momentarily. She let them slide a cold, metal knife under the back of the beautiful sweater Nuala and Cerridwen had dressed her in. She let them slice it apart, exposing her back to Amarantha’s court.

From where Feyre knelt, she couldn’t see anyone except for the two guards stationed at the massive doors at the entrance of the room.

“Ten lashes,” Amarantha repeated, and Feyre’s heart thrummed against her chest as she heard sound of a whip beating against the red floor behind her. She closed her eyes, pressing her face against the wooden post, bracing herself—

An earsplitting scream—Amarantha’s—echoed through the room, making everyone freeze. In midst of the dead silence, Feyre tried to turn her head to look, but only ended up straining her neck and had to turn back. Her heartbeat had picked up. Did Rhys do something? Did Tamlin do something?

“ _You_ ,” Amarantha’s voice came from behind Feyre, ragged, wild. “I should have clawed more than just your eye out. _Guards_!”

_I should have clawed more than just our eye out._

And yet, without knowing the full story, Feyre knew… Feyre knew Amarantha was talking to Lucien. Lucien, oh Lucien, stupid, impulsive—

“Twenty lashes on the girl,” Amarantha had lost the sweet tone in her voice, and was now only malicious, angry.

“ _NO_!” roared two voices together—Lucien, Tamlin. The crowd’s mumbling rose, but no one did anything. No one was willing to cross Amarantha.

“Your call, High Lord of Spring,” Amarantha snapped from behind Feyre. “Twenty lashes on the girl, or fifty on your emissary.”

 _Fifty_.

Feyre began struggling against the whipping post in front of her, tugging her arms back, hoping that somehow some sort of miracle would happen and she would be set free. She had to—she had to save Lucien. Fifty lashes… Lucien was strong, but fifty lashes could injure him so bad he would be bedridden for weeks and weeks. Feyre couldn’t let him—she knew Tamlin would choose Lucien to be punished over her, and she couldn’t let that happen.

So she tugged and tugged, feeling the harsh metal of the shackles at her wrists digging into her skin, the sound of metal clanging against wood joining the ever-growing noise of the spectators. _Do something, you cowards_! She wanted to yell at them.

_Do something do something do something—_

“Lucien,” Tamlin said. _No_. “I choose Lucien.” _No no no._

And that was Tamlin’s last straw. Feyre was never going back.

“Unshackle the girl,” Amarantha said. “Fifty lashes on the traitor.”

Feyre immediately grabbed onto the whipping post, her nails digging into the wood, some of them breaking, as a guard unlocked her shackles and another tugged her away. Feyre tried with all her might to keep herself planted where she was—she wanted those lashes, she wanted to take twenty to save Lucien from fifty—but she was thin and light and was pulled away, rough hands tightly gripping her arms as she struggled. Feyre turned her head, Lucien’s bright red hair vivid in her eyesight, blurred by the tears she hadn’t realised had formed. She let them fall, as she struggled against the guard holding her to reach for Lucien, who was now being walked slowly to the whipping post, head bowed, tunic off.

She turned her heard to the dais next, where Amarantha and Tamlin sat, both looking cold, angry. The reason Lucien was being punished became clear to Feyre as soon as she took in the sight of Amarantha’s throne: a gleaming golden dagger was buried deep into the dark material of the back of the throne, just short of an inch above the Queen’s head.

Lucien had tried to kill Amarantha. For Feyre. He tried to kill Amarantha knowing the consequences he would face had he failed. But he had done it anyway for Feyre.

And Feyre finally lost it. Her mouth opened, a silent sob escaping her lips, as she turned to Tamlin, pleading him with her eyes, begging him silently to look at her, but his gaze was fixed behind her, on Lucien—

 _Whip_.

A short, choked groan.

Gasps from the cowardly, incompetent crowd around them.

A laugh from Amarantha, who said in pure delight, “One!”

Feyre forced her gaze towards the post in the heart of the room, where Lucien kneeled, in the same position Feyre had been in, a harsh red line splayed across his broad back, as bright as his hair. The guard standing a few feet from him raised the large whip in his hand, throwing his wrist back and rounding it forward, making the whip once again smack against Lucien’s back, a louder groan escaping him this time, his body tensing up, making Feyre’s legs weaken. A new line appeared on Lucien’s back, brighter than the last.

Feyre closed her eyes tight, pressing her face into her arm to block out the sight, still held up by a guard, hoping there was some way she could block out the sounds as well. She couldn’t take it; someone else, someone she loved, being punished in her place. She closed her eyes through all of it, tears still forcing their way through her sealed eyelids, her heart hammering each time the crack of the whip echoed through the room, each time the crowd gasped, each time Lucien made a louder and louder noise of pain, each time Amarantha exclaimed a number.

But when lash number ten happened, Feyre couldn’t take it anymore. She forced her eyes open, realised her entire body was shaking with sobs. At this point Feyre would have had to endure only ten more of those horrible lashes—Lucien had to suffer forty more. She fought against the guard still holding her, his grip so tight her arms had gone numb, while she turned her face to Tamlin.

 _Look at me. Look at me_ , She pleaded in her head.

And to her surprise, he did, brilliant green eyes looking directly at her, his face easing, suddenly looking sympathetic as opposed to the unemotional one he had held while watching Lucien, his own friend, the man who had done so much for him get tortured—

Another crack of the whip, another groan. Eleven.

 _Please_ , Feyre begged, mouthing her words, sobbing silently, shaking her head. _Please. Let me. Let me, Tamlin._

Tamlin only stared at her for a few seconds before his face once again turned expressionless, his head raising as he looked back towards Lucien. Feyre hadn’t ever hated him before, the way she did in that moment.

So she turned toward the crowd, towards the few people among them who were looking at her, and began begging, pleading, but no sound coming out of her mouth. She continued struggling against the man gripping her, her limbs, her body, aching. And she looked at the hundreds of people watching and begged and begged. She turned to face the little group of bright, red haired men and a woman who were seated together amongst the crowd, in clear Autumn Court attire—Lucien’s family; it had to be; they looked exactly like him. One of the younger men turned to her, and Feyre begged him, _Please, do something_ , but he only blinked towards her, his head tilting in intrigue, before turning away. The woman among them—Tamlin’s mother, she had to be—was sobbing, her hands pressed up against her mouth, but she did nothing, as her husband, the High Lord of the Autumn Court, held her back by the shoulders.

 _Cowards_! She screamed at them all, but her voice, something she needed so desperately in that moment, failed her.

 _Whip_!

Twelve.

She had to do something, she had to do something.

So she turned her face, to the hand gripping her right arm, and she leaned closer, opening her mouth wide and biting down, as hard as she could, on the dirty, sweaty, hairy wrist that held her. A loud yell echoed through the room from right behind her, and both hands gripping her lifted, dropping Feyre to the ground, making her knees spark in pain. Everyone’s attention had turned to her.

Feyre tasted salt and blood and dirt in her mouth, but she didn’t care, she didn’t care to spit or to wipe her mouth clean, as she darted for the middle of the room, towards Lucien, just as the guard holding the whip raised his arm, just as Tamlin screamed, “ _NO_!” while someone else—Rhys—cried out, “ _FEYRE_!”

But it was too late, because Feyre had already reached Lucien, because Feyre had thrown herself over Lucien, just far enough not to press against him and hurt him, just in time for the whip to smack against her back.

It was the most painful thing Feyre had ever encountered. The lash made her vision go white for just a second, and her entire skin surrounding the line of impact was on fire. She could have sworn she had stopped breathing for a while in the utter shock and pain that she felt, tears burning her eyes. Her mouth hung open at the ghost of a scream, her ears rang, and her entire body felt like it was shrinking in on itself, squeezing Feyre’s soul.

“F-Feyre,” She heard Lucien say from in front of her, distracting her from the pain. “Feyre, you fool—”

Tamlin roared in the background, while Amarantha laughed in amusement. The crowd was pin-drop silent, tense—this could not end well.

“Oh, this is even more fun!” Amarantha squealed. “Go on, go on!”

Tamlin swore. “We had a deal,” He boomed, sounding ferocious and deadly—like an animal.

“I have changed my mind,” Amarantha quipped, much too frivolous, as opposed to how angry she had sounded the last time she spoke. “Feyre takes nine more lashes and I swear to have her healed. This time. And I swear to spare Lucien for attempting to take my life.”

 _Do it, Tamlin. Say yes, you fool_ , Feyre begged in her head, still fighting against the pain in her back, her hands braced against Lucien’s hot, sweaty, shaking shoulders.

After a horrible silence in the room, Tamlin asked, “Do you swear?”

“You have my word, Tamlin dear.”

 _Thank you_ , Feyre said to Tamlin silently.

“Alright,” Tamlin said, sounding extremely torn.

Feyre readied herself, removing her hands from Lucien’s shoulders and pressing a soft kiss on the reddish muscle instead, before shifting slightly to the side. Lucien was unshackled, but he didn’t—couldn’t—move, and instead he moved his now free arm around Feyre, around her neck, gently, so it wouldn’t collide with the whip, so, Feyre realised, she would have some support, someone holding her, while she was tortured.

Feyre reached her hand up and placed it on Lucien’s bicep, still quivering, while her other arm braced the wooden post, gripping it with all her might. She pressed the side of her face against the wood, looked at Lucien, her friend, who had sacrificed himself for her, as he looked back at her in the same way, through his good eye, the other concealed against the post, his expression fighting through his pain to be comforting for her.

When the whip came down on Feyre again, it was more painful than the last time. This time, she felt it bite into her flesh. This time, it felt like Hell’s own fire was ripping her skin apart. “Feyre, Feyre,” She heard Lucien comfort, but she felt as if she were worlds away, swimming in a pool of flames.

The whip came down a second time, and Feyre screamed another silent scream. She heard Lucien whisper her name again, she heard someone—Rhys, oh her beautiful, thoughtful Rhys—call her name as she felt herself collapse to the floor, one hand still holding Lucien’s arm.

Again, the whip came down, the pain increasing tenfold, the ringing in her ears increasing tenfold, Lucien whispering her name even more quietly, in even more pain. Feyre’s vision went white.

Again. And Feyre fought to hold onto consciousness— _no, no, no, it’s only the fifth, no_ —

Dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VERY IMPORTANT!  
> Hey guys, so I've got some bad news. I've got my exams coming up starting from the 5th of May and I really need to start revising so I can't really update with chapter 10 next week. The British are fucked up and our exams are going to end on the 9th of June so I probably won't be able to update until a couple of days after that. PROBABLY! I might even just end up updating mid or end May.  
> I promise I'm not gonna give up on my Feyre and Rhys. I mean, guys, I'm not even gonna be able to read ACOWAR until June, how sad is that?  
> Buuuut I've planned most of my chapters out, and I think you guys will be VERY happy with chapter 10 and 11!!  
> I'll miss you x


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself! I still have two weeks of exams left but I got so excited about writing this one. I really enjoyed writing it, too. 7k+ words; my highest!! BTW PLEASE NO ACOWAR SPOILERS!
> 
>  
> 
> Finally, a big, big shout out to Kitashi, HardcoreShipper, and athroneofmistand glass. Your feedback on my need for a semi-hiatus and encouraging words really, really brightened my spirit. You guys are so sweet!

Feyre awoke with a jolt and immediately her mouth opened in a silent cry of pain, tears welling in her eyes, as with her, the searing pain in her back woke as well. She was topless, a blanket—her blanket, the one Rhys had given her—draped over her body, which had now slipped down to her waist.

She was back on the cold stone floor of her cell, sitting amidst dead silence, of course except for a water leak somewhere in the dungeon. Her entire body felt heavy, her back stinging, so she lay back down again, memories of earlier coming back to her—how long had it been? What happened after she passed out? Lucien—was Lucien okay?

 _Lucien_. Oh stupid, stupid Lucien. All that to save her, getting himself in trouble—she needed to see him. She needed to make sure he was okay, to make sure Amarantha had remained true to her word. So, fighting the protesting pain in her back, Feyre braced an arm on the uneven floor under her and pushed herself to a sitting position, picking up the blanket from around her waist and wrapping it around her shoulders, looking around the cell for something she could wear—

When she turned to the doors, she saw him. Rhys, her beautiful, graceful Rhys, looking as broken and drained as he’d looked the last time she had seen him in her cell—no, worse. He was sitting—slouching—just outside her cell, sideways to it, long legs stretched out ahead of him, his head leant against the cold metal of the door, a fist gripping one of the bars, his knuckles whiter than his skin already was.

And his face, oh his beautiful face, was blank and grey, making Feyre’s heart break as she took him in, comparing him to the brightness and laughter that radiated off him when they were in Velaris. His lips were parted, as if he was about to speak but had held himself back. And his eyes… Glassy, ghostly, as he stared directly at her, looking absolutely shattered.

Feyre tried to slide her body towards him, and her feeble, pathetic attempt must have triggered something in him, because he spoke, his voice cracking, “I… I don’t know what to say.”

This broke Feyre completely, how destroyed Rhys looked and sounded, for _her_ , and she let out a mute sob, her arms involuntarily reaching out to him and immediately falling out of weakness, but Rhys had entered the cell within a heartbeat and caught her before her arms hit the floor. His scent and his presence immediately intoxicated her, giving her just enough strength to wrap her arms around him and press her face into his neck, while he held her by the hips—careful, he was always so careful.

As Feyre sobbed into his rumpled, dark tunic, Rhys whispered against her ear, “I thought I lost you, Feyre.” His voice gave away while saying her name. “I—I… You scared me half to death.” His hand was in her hair now, fingers gently combing through the knots. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault, if I hadn’t—”

Feyre pulled back immediately as soon as he said so, ready to protest. Rhys still held her, the whites of his eyes reddened, making Feyre realise he had been crying. Still, she pinned him with as stern a look as possible and slowly shook her head.

Rhys was staring at her, his gaze upset and distant, his hands, trembling just slightly, coming up to cup her cold cheeks, pulling her face closer towards his, his forehead resting against her own. Feyre closed her eyes, inhaling Rhys’ smell of citrus and jasmine and sea breeze, relishing the feeling of his breath fanning against her face, the feeling of his short, raven hair between her fingers as she stroked through it. She had never been this near him during the several times she had been naked in front of him. It made her feel self-conscious momentarily, but she didn’t care. She knew she was comforting him as much as he was comforting her. She tried to relax, go back into the feeling that she always got when they had moments like these, creating an illusion that the two of them were the only people left in the world.

But the simmering pain in her back reminded her, kept nagging her, of her priorities—of Lucien. So, she pulled back from Rhys, almost feeling guilty for it upon seeing the flash of confusion and hurt on his face. To make up for it, she quickly put a frail hand against his cheek, which he tilted his head towards.

Feyre had no energy to sign, to write, so she tried to speak; and of course, no sound came out, as she asked Rhys, _Lucien?_

It took Rhys a moment to understand what she was trying to say, as he looked at her lips, eyes slightly narrowed, concentrated, before they widened and he looked back up at Feyre. “He’s okay,” Rhys said, and Feyre let out a little silent sob of relief, feeling a great weight being lifted off her shoulders. She knew Rhys would never lie to her. She managed to smile, a small one, as a _thank you_.

Rhys just nodded, still looking slightly lost as he watched Feyre. He was hurting, it seemed, more than she realised. “The bitch kept her word,” He said, his voice hushed. “After… A-after you passed out, they continued t-to…” He gripped Feyre tighter, but she felt no pain; he just needed her in that moment. She remained stroking through his hair, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and let him go on. “They continued to whip you, Feyre,” His voice sounded pubescent, small, “Until all the assigned lashes were complete. And then the whole _party_ ,” He spat saying the last word, “Was over. Spring Court left, they took Lucien with them—I heard a guard just earlier reporting to Amarantha that he’s been healed back in Spring… I think she’s definitely still furious he tried to kill her.”

Feyre’s chest tightened; Amarantha could have been lying, she could go after Lucien if she wanted to.

“And then they carried you away to be healed,” Rhys continued, his head bowing slightly. “It took them hours and hours, and yet all they could do was clean up the cuts. You only have the scars now—it would have taken Amren _minutes_ to fix you up completely… Does… Does it hurt?”

Feyre nodded slowly. She didn’t want to lie to him.

Rhys only stared at her, in pain, looking weak. He stared at her for what felt like several asphyxiating minutes, until finally, he whispered, “Come away with me.”

A nod was Feyre’s only reply—she would go anywhere with him within a heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

After changing into new clothes, a slight struggle to stand, followed by slow, painful steps, Rhys had snuck the two of them to the dark night outside Under the Mountain, and in a matter of seconds, to a most beautiful scene.

They were on top of a beautiful, grassy hill, just feet away from its precipice, looking over the city beyond. All around them were the sounds of night—crickets, mellow wind rustling the grass—and no people were around, except for the two of them, standing under the beautiful light of the night sky, bright moonlight shining down upon them, stars twinkling their hellos.

Feyre’s hand was in Rhys’, subject to a gentle squeeze as he walked closer to the edge of the cliff, making Feyre follow suit. She sat down next to him as he did, his legs stretching out ahead of him, leaning back, his elbows supporting him on the grass. Feyre sat up instead, her legs crossed under her, taking in the view ahead of them—which, she realised, was of the Night Court. She could see Rhys’ colossal mansion in the distance, atop the beautiful, icy mountains around the Court. She should have recognised it earlier, with the scent—it smelled almost the same as Rhys did, along with the freshness of the beautiful night breeze.

She cast a sideways glance at Rhys, but he wasn’t looking at her; he stared directly ahead at his Court, his home. Feyre realised he was trying to comfort himself, calm himself down. So she let him be, letting herself scan the place around her. Night was beautiful, something Feyre had loved always, yet night in the Night Court… it seemed something more special. Perhaps it was because of Rhys; perhaps she felt at home in the Night Court, felt enchanted by it, because of how she felt about its High Lord.

It felt like forever, during which they sat quietly in each other’s presence, before Rhys broke the silence.

“When they carried you away to be healed,” He said, his voice hollow, his head bowing slightly as Feyre turned to look at him. He was still looking ahead at his territory, “I waited outside for hours, Feyre, already jumping to bad conclusions—you… You amazing, brave creature,” Feyre was slightly taken aback at this sudden compliment. Rhys turned his head to look at her this time, his hand reaching out to clasp hers, and Feyre interlocked their fingers. Rhys had a small, sad smile on his lips. “You did that, you put yourself through that, all for someone else.”

Feyre didn’t think what she had done was brave; she was just defending someone she loved, protecting him, the way Rhys protected everyone he loved back at home, in Velaris.

“I was so worried, Feyre,” Rhys whispered, and Feyre shifted closer to him, laying down completely next to him, on her side—quickly sending him a smile, to indicate it didn’t hurt her back, when he cast her a look of worry and alarm. When Rhys lay down as well, on his back, Feyre rested her head against his shoulder, the side of her head against his jaw, and closed her eyes. Rhys’ arm came up around her head, his fingers slowly, cautiously stroking through her hair, as if worried she would disappear. “I didn’t think you could have taken it,” He said, and Feyre could feel his heartbeat pick up through the hand she rested on his chest. “You’ve thinned so much, you’d already been tortured before, lost so much blood… I thought they’d killed you.” She could feel the agony in him, through the emptiness in his voice.

“I was ready to march to Amarantha and kill her with my bare hands,” His tone was suddenly full of rage, and Feyre wrapped her arm around his chest, giving him a little squeeze of comfort. “But then they carried you out, healed yet scarred, and alive, and they all but tossed you into your cell, not even bothering to clothe you. I… I was the one who had put the blanket over you, so you wouldn’t be cold. And I didn’t want to intrude on your space so I stayed outside your cell and waited for you to wake up. Every few minutes, I reached in to check your temperature, your scars, to make sure you were okay. All because I was getting paranoid. You were out for two days, Feyre, and I was so worried. I was scared. I-I… I haven’t slept, I stayed outside your cell and I hadn’t moved from there until now.”

Feyre felt her eyes water, and her chest tightened, her heart racing. Oh Rhys, he did so much for her, always putting her needs before his own. He hadn't _slept_ for over two days, even. She would have raised her hands to say something, to express her gratitude, but she realised he wasn’t done speaking yet.

“I have known nothing but darkness for the past three years since Amarantha’s reign began,” He whispered, “And then, under horrible circumstances of course, you came into my life.” Feyre felt a drop of liquid on her temple, where it rested against Rhysand’s jaw, and she realised he was crying. She held him tighter. “You were, you are, this brilliant, beautiful light, and you’ve made my sacrifices, my misery, even more worth it.” Feyre’s heart fluttered in her chest, and she wanted to speak, to be able to tell Rhys, with her own voice, that he made _her_ misery worth it.

But Rhys spoke again. “I put on this disguise everyday, I fight everyday, I protect the people I love everyday. And you know what I say in my head every time, to remind myself what I’m fighting for? I say, _Mor. Cassian. Azriel. Amren. Velaris. Feyre._ _”_

It was Feyre’s turn to tear up now. She couldn’t handle keeping her feelings to herself anymore, so she sat up, sitting cross legged again, turning to face Rhys, who was looking at her in confusion, drying tear trails on his pale cheeks, twins to her own.

Feyre herself was confused. She didn’t know how to start.

She raised her hands, as Rhys watched quizzically, and then signed _,_ _The first time Lucien came to see me, he said horrible things about you, that you’re vindictive, that you’re a killer, that you’re merciless—_

“ _That’s_ why you were angry with me afterwards,” Rhys spoke, eyes widening as he sat up, mimicking Feyre’s position, sitting across from her, their knees against each other’s.

Feyre nodded, signing, _I’m sorry_  . And then she realised what she had called him that night, and immediately added _,_ _Rhys, I’m so sorry. For calling you a… calling you a_ _—_ She couldn’t bring herself to sign the word.

But Rhys had already bowed his head, facing away from her, and Feyre hated herself for making him feel like that. But he turned his head back again, looking at her. “What else did he say?” He asked.

Feyre hesitated, before replying _, He told me you killed Tamlin’s family._

She waited for Rhys so say no, to laugh at Lucien’s attempt to turn her against him, to insult Lucien, call him a fool. But it didn’t come.

Instead, Rhys looked Feyre right in the eyes, a haunted expression on his face, as he said, “I did.”

And Feyre felt herself begin to crash, feel sudden betrayal, her thoughts jumping to conclusions much too fast, but she held on before she got too far—she needed a reason, she needed to know what had happened. So she pinned him with her gaze, knowing it was enough to convey her question to him.

Rhys reached his hands forward, but retracted just short of holding Feyre’s, a guilty look on his face. “My father and I did, to avenge our family.” Feyre stayed silent, despite being intrigued. Rhys’ hands balled into fists on his lap. “I am the most powerful High Lord Prythian has known,” He said. “Tamlin, who was my best friend at the time, knew that, his father knew that. And they felt threatened. Despite the Court rivalry, I always confided in Tamlin. I trusted that our generation, the next High Lords, would look past prejudice and consider each other individuals. Tamlin shared that view with me as well. That was why we were so close, why we were always speaking to each other. I was still training at an Illyrian war camp then, often unable to see my family, and one day, I was supposed to meet my sister and my mother in a place nearby. This was supposed to remain a secret, yet I told Tamlin, because I trusted him.”

His voice became quieter and quieter as he spoke, new tears streaming down his cheeks.

He sniffed. “When I got to them, my mother and sister were dead—slaughtered.”

Feyre sat frozen, not knowing what to say, to do.

“I knew it was Tamlin, and I was right. They had gone for me, for _me_. But I wasn’t there, and they killed my mother and my sister instead.” Unable to help it, Feyre reached forward and held Rhys’ hands, to which he gave a grateful squeeze, his shoulders drooping slightly. “To get all the way to the Night Court, to find the Illyrian camp, to remain concealed while doing it, so the rest of the Spring Court, the rest of Prythian, wouldn’t know about this horrible thing they had done, they needed help. And guess whose help, from outside Prythian, they had taken?”

Feyre’s heart stopped.

_Amarantha._

Rhys must have understood from her expression that she knew, because he continued, “If you remember from when you first came to Under the Mountain, Amarantha had said Tamlin’s family has been indebted to her. This is why, because she had helped them kill my mother and sister.

“My father and I both wanted revenge, so we stole into the Spring Court. It was easy for me to take care of the guards—I hadn’t killed them, only stunned,” He added, as if trying to assure her she wasn’t a mindless killer. “It had alarmed Tamlin’s brothers, because they had come out to the front of their manor, but they were not prepared well enough and my father and I… We’d slaughtered them, Feyre.”

She was unsure how to feel, but she didn’t remove her hands from Rhys’ own. He held her hands tighter, clearly struggling to tell his story, to take a trip down memories that hurt him so much.

“My father simply walked into the house once they were dead, but I… I was left traumatised at what we had done, what I had done. I… I felt no better than Tamlin, when doing that, even though his brothers were horrible people. So I went after my father, wanting him to stop, already sick of all that bloodshed.

“But I was too late. He had already murdered Tamlin’s parents in their sleep, and was on his way to Tamlin’s room. But Tamlin had come out, possibly awoken by all the chaos, and as soon as he saw my father, the blood on his sword, he killed him. I… I was so distraught, disgusted in myself, overcome with guilt… I ran, Feyre, I fled the Spring Court. And ever since then, Tamlin and I have hated each other.”

Feyre had been breeding contempt for Tamlin for a while, but in that moment, she hated him. She knew, had Tamlin been telling her this story, he would have failed to mention that he had been the one to mindlessly slaughter Rhys’ family before Rhys had done anything to him.

“When I became the High Lord, I made a decision,” Rhys said. “Lucien wasn’t wrong when he said I’m cruel and vindictive, because that is what I have made everyone outside Velaris believe I am. And I’ve done it on purpose, to strike fear, to make everyone steer clear of the Night Court, compare my Court to Hell. I built illusions that my Court is invulnerable, so people would be too afraid to harm it.”

Feyre’s heart ached for him. She thought _her_ life had been torture after torture, but she hadn’t experienced it at the lengths Rhys did. She brought his hands to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles, smiling reassuringly, when he looked at her. He released a deep sigh, as if he had been holding it for very long, as if he felt relieved.

He felt relieved, Feyre realised, that she didn’t think of him as a monster. So she said so, signing to him, _You’re no monster, Rhys. You are kind and selfless and you have made mistakes, but you are not a bad person. Not in my eyes._

Rhys stared at her, his face scrunching up slightly, as if he were breaking. “Oh darling,” He said, his smile twinning Feyre’s. “I don’t deserve you,” He whispered, just slightly audible.

Feyre wasn’t sure she was worth deserving. So instead, she signed _, I want to know more about you. Tell me everything._

Rhys stared at her momentarily, as if perplexed she was actually interested in him, before nodding. He cleared his throat. “I… Over time, I came to learn that Amarantha had helped Tamlin and his father, and months later, when she showed up in Prythian, I was determined to kill her. I was a fool. I overestimated myself, and I underestimated her,” He said, shaking his head. “While she was going on about Prythian, twisting everybody up in debts, I began communicating with her. I made it look like I was interested in making her acquaintance, so she’d let her guard down. I was the most powerful High Lord in Prythian, I was sure I could defeat her. And yet, I still made sure that in case something happened to me, Velaris would be safe. So I made my Circle swear to remain in the city, in the Court, no matter what happens to me, unless I tell them they can leave. If they do leave my Court, Feyre, the wards protecting Velaris will fall. I tied my entire city to them. I did it to protect them, to protect Velaris. And I never saw them again, Feyre, so I could minimise the risk of Velaris being found. I never saw them again, until the day Amarantha tortured you. I couldn’t let you bleed, be in pain like that, knowing I had a way to help you, to heal you. And then I did it again when took you to Velaris, to show you that you _do_ have a home, that you _do_ have a place where people love you, where you can be at peace, where you won’t be told what to do… I did it for you, Feyre.”

Feyre wasn’t sure she was breathing, as Rhys gazed at her, cautious, anxious. She didn’t know what to reply to him with, but just as she was about to raise her hands to sign something, Rhys turned his head away and began to speak again.

“And then one night, two years ago, when Amarantha had thrown a party, I tried it, I tried to kill her, but she was too quick; she acted faster. She held me down, and forced me to watch as she killed the people I had brought with me, from the Court of Nightmares. Just to exact how powerful she was. She already hated me enough, I knew, because she was a friend of Tamlin’s father, and I had helped kill him. And then she made an announcement, made Prythian realise that she had twisted all the Courts up within each other, and finally revealed that she had stolen our little, nimble amount of magic, without which I cannot unbind my Circle. She became the most powerful person in Prythian, and finally declared herself the Queen.”

Rhys’ words had become incredibly hushed now, coming to the next part of his story. “She began turning her attention towards me, and I understood what I had to do. Feyre, I would do anything to protect the people I love. So I let her bed me, I made her scream and beg for me, writhe under me. I made her want me, and I began gaining her trust, because I couldn’t kill her. I wasn’t powerful enough, even with her guard down while I fucked her. She had protected herself, magically, from any physical attack. I became her whore, her lapdog, doing all her dirty work, at her constant beck and call. I guess I deserve this torture, for all I’ve done.”

It was Feyre’s turn to grip Rhys’ hands. Rhys, oh her selfless, beautiful Rhys, who had lost so much, sacrificed so much, just to protect the people he loved, thinking he was undeserving of love, thinking he would never be enough.

“Then you showed up in Under the Mountain,” He continued, “And as soon as I saw you, there was something… Something in me that clicked into place, telling me that you were special, that you would change my life. I’d already thought you were the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on, and on top of that you had come into such a dangerous place just to protect someone you love. I felt… Connected to you, I could relate to you. I understood how much you wanted to protect Tamlin. I felt this strange feeling, and in my head I chided myself, because after all, you were with someone I hated, and so you may not be different from him. I was willing to ignore you.

“But then, for some reason, I had decided to go into that horrid dungeon. And I’m so glad I did, Feyre. If only I’d been there sooner, but I had been there before it got worse. I don’t know why, maybe because I myself was letting my body be used unwillingly, or because of whatever unspoken bond I have with you, but I became so angry when I learned that Amarantha had given everyone permission to do whatever they liked with you.”

Feyre hadn’t realised how much she had impacted Rhys from the start, the same way he had impacted her. Her saviour. Her prince of the Night.

“I’m sorry, Feyre,” Rhys croaked, squeezing her hands, “For the several times I had the opportunity to stop Amarantha from harming you, and not doing anything. For acting like I was enjoying it when Attor split your flesh open, for sitting by while Amarantha insulted you, for not doing anything when you got whipped.”

Feyre raised her hands to tell him that she understood why he held back, that she understood his need to protect his home and his friends, but Rhys went on, “I guess…” His voice sounded so small, “W-when you called me a whore, I was fully deserving of it.”

Feyre crumbled, her heart shattering to pieces, a heavy, silent sob escaping her lips, tears streaming from her eyes as she threw herself against Rhys, her arms flying around his neck, her head shaking repeatedly, in _no, no, no_ , as she peppered kisses over his face. She kissed away his tears as he held her by the hips, his expression detached, haunted, as he stared at her. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ , Feyre mouthed.

Rhys looked so broken, so exhausted, as he whispered, “But it’s true.”

Feyre shook her head again, pulling back from him. _You give your body up, you sacrifice yourself, to protect the people you love, Rhys. It’s not your fault and it doesn’t make you a bad person_ , She signed. Rhys shook his head slowly, two small tears falling from his eyes, which were bright purple even in the dark _. Trust me, Rhys_ , She signed _. I have done the same_.

“But I—” Rhys cut off from what he was about to say, now staring at her, his eyes wide, jaw hanging open. Feyre felt her chest tighten. She was doing this, she was really doing this, telling him, telling someone, what she had been through.

“F-Feyre?” Rhys asked, his voice short of a squeak, his hands reaching up to cup her cheeks, in disbelief, shock. Feyre noticed his chest rise and fall quicker than before, and she closed her eyes, leaning her head against one of his hands, taking in the feeling of Rhys around her, giving her the strength to go on, to tell him her story.

“Y-you…?” Rhys asked, and then a low growl escaped his lips, “Was it Tamlin—”

Feyre was quick to shake her head no, and then she looked at him. Not knowing where to start, she began with, _You know, I used to be able to speak._

Rhys blinked, again in disbelief. “You could?” He asked, his voice a whisper. So cautious. So… afraid, Feyre realised.

She nodded. _I’m sure you know that I’m not from Prythian_ , She continued, to which Rhys nodded. _I used to live not too far from here, in a little town, for all my life._

She hadn’t thought of her previous home in what felt like forever.

_My father was a merchant, and when I was very young, just an infant, we were extremely rich. I have two elder sisters. Nesta, the eldest, and Elain in the middle. We lived in a massive house; I even had an entire room to myself, where I would sit and draw all day while my sisters went off to school. I hadn’t been old enough to get a proper education yet; I still had time._

Rhys gave a slow nod, and Feyre knew he understood that something had happened that prevented her getting her education at all.

_One day, my father’s cargo ships had sunk, and we were left with no income coming into the house. To settle his debts, my father had to sell our things, eventually selling our entire house, forcing us to move into a little cottage near the forest. We became extremely poor, my father struggling to manage money to feed and clothe us. He couldn’t afford sending my sisters to school anymore, and I hadn’t even been sent in the first place, and suddenly their days were spent at home instead of at school, while my paint materials became more and more of unaffordable luxuries._

Rhys had opened his mouth to say something, but he caught himself before he did, shaking his head. “A conversation for a later time,” He said, “Please go on.”

Nodding, Feyre continued,  _And then, not too long after all that, my mother got sick, and more and more money was spent to treat her. We gave up our beds, our wardrobes, even some clothes. My sisters and I were forced to share a bed, one closet, and naturally, for young girls, a lot of fights occurred because of it, but eventually the atmosphere in our house forced us to settle down for what we had. We knew, a few months after Mother had gotten ill, that she was going to die. And when she did, we had no money to pay for her funeral._

“Oh, my darling,” Rhys whispered, a small frown on his face—the face of someone who could relate, who had lost his mother as well.

Feyre gave his hand, the one still on her cheek, a small squeeze, before she continued. _Eventually, Father became too old to take on a lot of work, and at the age of twelve, I took it upon myself to go out and hunt for food. We could barely get by on the money my father was earning, and food was becoming harder and harder to acquire. It was a struggle, specially when Father became too old to work, and I became the only one fending for the family for a while. I was angry at my sisters for not trying to help me, but I wouldn’t let it show, because they showed me they cared. Elain would save money and get me paint pots and Nesta would take care of me when I got ill._

_Winters would be the worst. I would be freezing, knee deep in snow, struggling to find a descent animal to take back home, and so having to stay out in the cold for hours and hours… Often I wondered how long was left until the Winter would take me._

Feyre noticed Rhys shake his head slightly, as if refusing to think of her dying. Her heart warmed, and her body and her mind calmed slightly, when Rhys leaned forward and pressed a kiss against her forehead. “You’re incredible,” He whispered.

Feyre didn’t fight when a single tear fell out of her eye at the compliment. _Two years ago, when I was seventeen, my father died_ , She said, and smiled sadly when Rhys frowned _. I was the one to bury him, since we couldn’t afford hiring someone. My sisters finally went out to get jobs, but with their little education and experience, on top of the scarcity of jobs in our village anyway, they found jobs with very little pay. Everyone refused to employ me, because I was illiterate. But we needed more money. Food from hunting was getting harder and harder to find, and my sisters weren’t paid enough, so I took on the one job that would pay me well._

The pain in Rhys’ face told her he understood what job she had taken. She saw his eyes glass over, tears ready, and once again felt so grateful for his presence.

Bracing herself for the trip down this horrible memory, Feyre signed, _I was too thin, too pale, to join a brothel—on top of that, I didn’t want to be tied to one. I wanted the freedom to quit whenever I wanted. So I went around alone, almost every night, to men and women who offered me good sums of money. They didn’t care that I was thin, that I clearly was unfed and possibly unwell; they only cared that I had a pretty face and nice breasts. I didn’t tell my sisters about it. I couldn’t—I was so embarrassed. I told them I was skinning all the animals I’d caught and selling their hides for good money._

She looked away from Rhys, ashamed, and instead looked down at her lap, as tears streamed down her cheeks, dropping down onto the grass from her face. She knew Rhys had given his body as well, that he could relate, but she felt so ashamed of herself, of what she’d done, with so many people—

“Hey,” Rhys whispered, and Feyre let out a shaky breath as he tucked his finger under her chin, gently tilting her face up, to look at him. Rhys’ expression, his gentle smile, his twinkling, sorrowful violet eyes held understanding, sympathy, and so, so much love, it made her let out a sob she didn’t know she was holding in. He cupped her cheeks, sending warmth and electricity through her skin, and then he kissed her forehead. “Like you said, darling,” He whispered, “You gave your body up, you sacrificed yourself, to protect the ones you love. I understand.”

Inside, Feyre felt like bursting with how much she felt for him, but on the outside, she only replied with a gentle smile, identical to Rhys’ own.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, Feyre,” He said, and his face tilted forward, his lips planting on her cheek, kissing her tears away, making her face heat up. Her body was alight with desire for him, even while she was recounting something that caused her pain.

She shook her head and pulled back. Rhys deserved to know. _I want to_ , She signed, to which Rhys nodded.

Taking a deep breath, Feyre continued _, Last year, a man showed up in our town. He was very rich, young, and very handsome. One night, he showed up at the local pub, where, usually, men would be looking for someone to bed. I was there that night, and I had watched from a distance as several women tried to seduce him. And instead, he got up and sat next to me. He didn’t make any advances, and neither did I. We spent the night talking. And when it was getting late, despite having such a good time with him, I told him that if he wasn’t looking to pay me for a fuck, I had to leave. So he paid me, and said he wouldn’t fuck me like that, because it wasn’t right and I clearly didn’t enjoy what I did. He said he understood that I needed the money, and gave it to me with no strings attached, only to meet him again. I was very touched, so I had decided not to take his money. But then I remembered that my sisters needed it, so I took it and left. And, like we had agreed, I met with him the next night. And the night after that. And the night after that, for at least two weeks. We only spoke each night, getting to know more about each other. And just like that, we were in love._

“Tamlin,” Rhys whispered, sounding almost shocked. Feyre smiled at the fond memory and nodded. _I don’t regret my time with Tamlin, Rhys. He was my whole world at some point, and he was good_ , She signed, despite knowing that it may upset Rhys—and it seemed to, from his torn expression. But it was true. She gave Rhys’ hand a quick squeeze, to assure him that her feelings for Tamlin had changed, and then continued. _Tamlin offered to take me away, near the time he was supposed to leave the village. I was thrilled at the idea of leaving, but I said no, because I had to be there for my sisters. So he gave me a little money, to help me get a proper education, while he spent his days and nights in our rickety cottage, fending for my sisters and I. I felt embarrassed to have been relying on him—I was never one to take the easy way out, to be dependent—but he insisted, and I knew it would help me._

 _And then one night_ … Feyre hesitated, suddenly afraid of the memory. Rhys watched her, cautiously, unsure. Needing support, comfort, Feyre let out a quiet sob and mouthed, _Hold me_.

And Rhys understood immediately, reaching his arms out and carefully pulling Feyre onto his lap, careful not to touch her back. She sniffled as he tucked her in against his chest, as she curled up against him.

“Take your time, darling,” Rhys whispered into her hair, “We can stay here for as long as you like.”

Feyre nodded against his shoulders, her hands reaching out to sign, at a distance Rhys could see. She signed, _I was done being a whore, I had stopped while Tamlin had been there. But then the night before he was supposed to be leaving, I was on my way home from night classes, when a young man—someone I had slept with before—came out to me. He asked for a night, and I said no. I told him I was off. But he continued insisting and I kept saying no. I had nothing to defend myself with, I had no one around to help me—_

“H-he didn’t—” Rhys started.

 _He did_ , Feyre signed, her body trembling against his as she relived the memory, of how she had felt during that time, of how helpless she had been. _I had screamed and cried so loud, but no one came to help me. It’s one thing to give your body up willingly, but it’s completely different if someone is forcing themselves on you._

Rhys’ grip on her tightened. “Oh my Feyre,” He whispered, and Feyre felt his tears drop onto her forehead, trailing down her face, joining her own. He was crying, for _her_.

Rhys had questioned how he deserved her, while the real question was how she deserved _him_.

But she didn't dwell on her thoughts for too long, and instead went on completing the rest of her story. _When he was done, he left me in the snow. I was half naked, too weak to move, and I just lay there my voice failing me every time I tried calling for help. It’s ironic, I suppose, that I had spent so much time in the snow, always wondering when it would kill me, yet nothing had ever happened to me, but that night, when my guard was low, a part of me died. I lost my voice, and I lost my dignity._

Rhys stayed silent, but Feyre could feel his heart beating fast against his chest.

_A woman found me in the morning. She must have recognised me because the first thing I remember from that day was her covering me up and getting some men to take me to Tamlin’s temporary room above the local pub. I was tired, half conscious, while the woman explained to him what had happened—it was clear that I’d been r-raped… Tamlin was so angry, he threatened to kill the man. He extended his stay to help me, asked me repeatedly what his name was, but I couldn’t speak, and I still couldn’t write, so the man went free, because we never saw him in the village for the two days we remained._

_Tamlin asked me again to leave with him, and this time I said yes. I needed a fresh start and I needed to get out of that place, because it reminded me of everything it had robbed me of. Tamlin extended his offer to my sisters, but Nesta refused, because she said she knew of Prythian and didn’t want anything to do with it, and so Elain stayed with her, while they both encouraged me to go, to find happiness with the man I loved._

Rhys pressed a kiss to her forehead, calming her slightly, but he said nothing more.

_When we came here, Tamlin and I lived in a small apartment just near Prythian’s borders—it’s not too far from Under the Mountain. I guess I know why now… He never told me about his real life, about being a High Lord; this, I found out, from you, when I came to Under the Mountain._

“Why would he do that? To protect you from Amarantha—? You’d have been safer in the Spring Court,” Rhys spoke, his voice rough.

 _I don’t know_ , Feyre replied. _But I was happy. He wouldn’t let me work, and I know the reason why now. I stayed in our apartment day and night almost, for a whole year, painting my heart away, which Tamlin supposedly sold upon my instructions. I only ever went out when Tamlin or Lucien would accompany me. At the time, I didn’t mind his possessiveness; I thought it came from everything that happened to me. I thought it was because he was just paranoid, and I understood. Tamlin and Lucien became my world, and I loved them both to pieces. Of course, I did get frustrated—he would get territorial even around Lucien, he wouldn’t let me work—but I tried to understand. After all, he had done so much for me, and I loved him dearly._

 _But then everything changed in Under the Mountain. I slowly began to realise that I was making up excuses for Tamlin’s behavior, and I began falling out of love with him. I’m not his possession, yet he treats me like one. Do you know he told me that Prythian was a country full of criminals and gangs? He said that was why he didn’t want me to see the rest of the country_.

Rhys let out a snort.

 _My trip to the Spring Court with you, and then visiting your Court, Rhys, visiting Velaris, my home, showed me that he lied. Prythian is beautiful_ , Feyre signed.

Rhys had taken in a sharp breath, and when Feyre looked up at him, he was staring down at her, eyes wide, lips parted. “Y-you…” He said, “You said Velaris is your home.”

Feyre smiled softly. _You’re my home, Rhysand_.

Tears cascaded down Rhys’ cheeks, and Feyre brushed her fingers against them, clearing them up as Rhys closed his eyes, a soft shuddering breath escaping his lips. He seemed so vulnerable in that moment. So beautiful.

 _I had been completely enchanted by you as well, when I first saw you_ , Feyre signed _. When you saved me, Rhys, from getting raped again, it so easily compelled me to trust you. And when I saw you after Amarantha left your room… How broken you looked, I understood how you felt. We’ve both done the same things for the same reasons. And, yes, in the middle I was misguided into hating you, but Rhys… You have done nothing but give and give, and I hate myself for hating you. For calling you that wretched word_.

“I-it’s alright, darling,” Rhys whispered, tears still streaming down his cheeks as he looked at Feyre.

She smiled softly. _You’re my home_ , _Rhys_ , She said again _. You are the light in_ my _darkness_. _We’re both broken, we’ve both suffered and sacrificed, but that doesn’t mean we’re undeserving of happiness. You made my misery in Under the Mountain worthwhile, the same way I made yours. And I think… I think we can make each other happy. I think, after everything, we deserve each other._

Rhys was staring at her, eyes wide, mouth open, tear tracks on his pale skin, glistening in the moonlight. Feyre stared back, her heart racing, as she reached a hand up to brush his silky raven hair away from his forehead. Rhys caught her hand when she began to retract it, his other grasping her free hand, their fingers intertwining as he brought them up to his lips, pressing soft kisses against them, his tears landing on her dirty, dry skin.

“I think,” Rhys whispered, looking at her, his purple eyes more brilliant than ever, his warm breath against her skin, “After everything, you know how I feel about you,”

Smiling through her tears, Feyre nodded. She mouthed, _I love you, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorryyyyyyyy but you guys won't be getting chapter 11 for about a week or two!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for uploading this late. I have no excuse other than being very distracted considering it's summer holiday. But I'm back and with a chapter that I hope people will be... satisfied... with. 
> 
> I also haven't read ACOWAR yet. That's because my aunt had pre-ordered it for me and I'm waiting for her to send it over, and I'm too awkward to ask her when. It just feels like I'm nagging. PLEASE NO ACOWAR SPOILERS! 
> 
> Not Beta'd!

It was such a big, precious moment; a moment of blissful silence, as Feyre took in the fact that her love for Rhys was reciprocated, as she found just a glimmer of hope, of a happy future for the both of them; as Rhys held her, still, quiet, as they stared ahead at the Court that was their home, as they sat amidst the beautiful night and all the enchanting images it had to offer.

It had been only a matter of seconds since Feyre signed, _I love you too_ ; she felt light, happy, almost in a dreamlike state. But her confession, the whole moment, seemed incomplete without much of a response for Rhys, without her knowing what his expression was like, as their position didn’t allow her the view. So she sat up, Rhys’ arms giving away from around her so easily, and she turned to face him, sitting down with her knees pressed against Rhys’.

The expression that Rhys held, however, was far from what Feyre had expected.

She had expected something that was mirroring what she possibly had at that moment, a calm sort of happiness on his face. But Rhys’ expression was almost ghostly with disbelief, as he stared at her, his violet eyes glassy and wide and twinkling, tears falling from them with no blinking required, lips slightly parted. He sat almost frozen, one of his hands gripping onto a fistful of grass, while the other hung off his lap, shaking quite visibly.

On instinct, Feyre got up on her knees and shifted even closer to Rhys, feeling his body tensing up against her as she moved both of her legs on either side of his, straddling his lap. His eyes were still pinned on her, his head tilting upwards so he could still see her. Feyre was highly conscious of their closeness, and she knew Rhys was too. She could feel the warmth of his body through her clothes, and the quick rhythm of his heartbeat where her stomach was pressed against his chest. She could feel the nerves in his hands as they shook on their way up her thighs, making her shiver, in comfort, in lust, in love, until they rested on her hips. She could feel his breaths gently breezing over his face, and she could feel the warmth of his skin when she finally reached her hands up and touched his pale cheeks.

She could feel his heart beating faster when she offered him a small, gentle smile, while he still stared at her, his eyes shifting between all parts of her face, as if he were trying to comprehend what was happening.

Feyre’s smile remained on her face as she gently tilted Rhys’ head forward, his cheekbones hard and his skin rough against the pads of her thumbs as she stroked them over his cheeks. She pressed her lips against his forehead, trying to comfort him the way he had done for her countless times, with each of his kisses to her forehead. She then moved her lips over his face, kissing away the tears he had been shedding, trying to convey all her love for him through the simple actions.

And that must have done it, because Rhys suddenly let out a shuddering breath, leaning his forehead against Feyre’s collarbone, his hands gently squeezing her hips, his thumbs brushing against her hipbones, over her tunic, still making her shiver. She moved one of her free hands up into his short black hair, stroking through it as she rested her chin on his head, her eyes closing and taking in the moment; the moment that was good and calm and all theirs, wrapped up in each other in the middle of the night, looking over their home, where they belonged.

“I love you,” Rhys whispered, his voice shaking, his lips brushing against the skin on her collarbone as he spoke. Hearing him finally say it broke any sort of hold Feyre had in her, and immediately came tears, not hesitating to stream down her cheeks. “I love you,” Rhys said again, his head tilting up, his lips pressing against her neck, making Feyre let out a silent gasp, built up from desire. “A-and after everything, you love me—”

Feyre was quick to pull back, far enough to see his eyes, her hands cupping his wet cheeks once again. She nodded and offered him a smile as he stared at her. And by the time she mouthed, “I do,” Rhys had cupped the back of her head, pulled her face close to his own, and connected their lips.

Feyre tasted salt, from both their tears mixed together. But her attention didn’t last on that for long. Rhys kissed her softly, cautiously, as if worried she would be angry, but when she kissed him back, her arms sliding around his shoulders, he seemed to let go of all his worries, and the passion that both of them felt for each other, that both of them had built up for weeks and weeks, erupted through their bodies. It was the feeling of _finally_ that Feyre got whenever she had gotten a painting right after hours and hours of working on it, or finally catching an animal after hours of waiting in the snow, of feeling, for a moment, like she was invincible.

And she did feel invincible, being held in Rhysand’s arms, kissing him, feeling her desire for him reflected in the way he touched her, caressed her cheek, licked his tongue over her lip, and then into her mouth where it slid against her own tongue. If Feyre could, she would have moaned, but instead she pressed herself against him, and felt him harden underneath her, a throaty groan escaping from his lips into her mouth.

Slowly, Feyre pulled back from their kiss, her hands playing with the short hairs at the back of Rhys’ neck. She wanted to go on; she had been wanting Rhys for a long time, and she could tell by the hunger that she could see in his eyes, that he wanted her too. But the hunger that Rhys pinned her with seemed to be fading, overpowered with concern as his dark eyebrows knitted together, his hand reaching up to push strands of Feyre’s hair away from her face.

Just the simple gesture made her heart skip a beat.

“What’s wrong?” Rhys asked, his voice almost a whisper. He was staring at her, so intently it almost made her blush. She couldn’t hide anything from him, she realised, and slowly, with a shaking hand, she reached up and touched her throat.

A frown appeared on Rhys’ face as he looked at her hand on her throat and then back up at her. “Your voice?” He asked cautiously, to which Feyre nodded. Rhys’ expression turned puzzled. “I-I don’t understand.”

Feyre didn’t understand much either. She had slept with Tamlin countless times with no voice, never hesitating. But this time, with Rhys, things felt different to her. This time…

 _I want to give you my everything, Rhys_ , She signed, still not being able to properly explain what she meant _. Without my voice, I…_ She hesitated, before signing, _I don’t feel whole. I want to be whole, for you._

Rhys’ eyes widened slightly, and his hands reached up, enveloping her own, their warmth spreading through Feyre’s cold skin. He still had her pinned with his gaze, his purple irises still bright in the starlight, making the artist in Feyre think he was as beautiful as any masterpiece. He pressed a kiss against Feyre’s hands as he spoke, his voice raspy, “You are perfect, Feyre Archeron. Voice or no voice. No matter in what way you are present before me, I will always believe you are perfect. I want you, I will want you, and I will always love you, no matter what. And if you still do not want to go further tonight, I will be happy with how much of yourself you have allowed me, because it’s more than I have ever imagined. I am lucky to have just this much. And I am honoured, Feyre, to have you, even if I never hear you say my name, or make noises when I make love to you.  I am honoured.”

Feyre’s heart had almost stopped, her whole body buzzing with Rhys’ words, with how much love she was receiving from him, amidst all her flaws. She felt tears against her cheeks again, and didn’t even recall having shed any. Her hands were shaking, so much that even as Rhys let them go, she couldn’t bring herself to sign anything to him. Instead, through silent sobs, she mouthed, _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , repeatedly as she peppered kisses over his face.

A soft, relieved chuckle came from Rhys, and he asked, “Do you want to stop?”

She wanted Rhys, and she wanted to give everything to Rhys. Right at that moment. She knew both of them were tired of waiting. So she shook her head no, and a smile stretched across her face involuntarily as Rhys pulled her face towards hers and kissed her again.

Their second kiss held as much electricity and passion and intensity as their first, but it didn’t last as long, as Rhys pulled back and began kissing down her neck, both of his hands sliding under her tunic, caressing Feyre’s stomach, making her shiver at the contact. She suddenly grew a deep distaste for the barriers of clothing between them, impatient to get their skin touching, and began to quickly undo the buttons of Rhys’ tunic.

He was still kissing her neck as he shrugged off his tunic, allowing Feyre to discard it on the grass to her right. He let out a sigh of ease, whispering, “That’s better,” against her skin, and Feyre realised that he had made his glorious wings appear on his bare back. Reaching out, she touched the curve of his wing, feeling the peach-like skin there, making Rhys shiver suddenly. Thinking she had hurt him, Feyre pulled her hand away, but Rhys was quick to object.

“No, no,” He said, his voice husky, “I like that. Illyrian wings… They’re quite sensitive.” His hands travelled further up under her tunic, cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her peaked nipples, making her arch her back into his touch. She reached her hand out again, while the other gripped Rhysand’s hair at the back of his head, and stroked over the expanse of his wing, this time with slightly more pressure.

The loud groan that escaped Rhys half surprised Feyre, and half made her desire for him grow further, almost desperate for more. One of Rhys’ arms slid around Feyre’s waist, and he raised her body just slightly, grinding her against him, making Feyre tip her head back and arch against him in a silent moan.

She needed him so bad it hurt.

Feyre raised her arms, and Rhys was quick to slide her tunic off, throwing it to the side, where it joined his own. Rhys curved forward, his arm still wrapped around her waist, while his other hand cupped her breast. He brought his tongue down to her free breast, licking down from her collar bone to her nipple, teasingly licking circles around it, and finally when he brought his mouth down on it, Feyre grinded against him again, her body building up with tension and want.

This time, Rhys swore against her skin. Feyre pulled back from him and got to her feet, wobbling and almost falling over as she did so. Rhys held out a hand to steady her, and, as she began untying the string of her pants, watched Rhys.

He was staring at her body; the look on his face was almost animalistic, and Feyre’s heart thrummed with excitement and want. She was throbbing with how much she wanted him at that moment. As soon as she undid her pants, it slid down her long, pale legs and pooled around her ankles, leaving her completely naked in front of Rhys.

As she stepped out of her pants and kicked them away, Rhys shifted closer to her. She watched him as his hands rose to cup the backs of her thighs, and his forehead pressed against her lower abdomen. “Perfect,” Rhys mumbled, and Feyre held her breath as he tilted his head, his lips disappearing between her thighs, his tongue flicking out, licking against her. Feyre let out a quiet moan and her eyes shut immediately, overwhelmed in pleasure. Rhys’ tongue rubbed against her cunt, in long strokes, making her body jerk slightly, her legs trembling. Groaning, Rhys pulled back, his forehead once again resting against her stomach.

“Look at you,” He whispered, and then looked up to meet Feyre’s dazed gaze, “You’re dripping wet for me, Feyre darling.” A small, teasing smirk played at his lips, but Feyre had no energy in her to bite back at him. She was dripping wet, and it was only for him. Always for him, from this moment on. And she wanted him so bad, wanted his touch back where his mouth just was.

Pushing himself back, Rhys stood up, leaving Feyre at eyelevel with his chest. Before Rhys could do it himself, Feyre reached down to unbutton his pants, her mouth travelling over his skin, leaving kisses and tongue trails, making him heave a heavy sigh. She pushed his pants down, his length springing free, pressing against her stomach due to their closeness, leaving a spot of moisture on her skin. The simple contact made Rhys shiver, and Feyre began to rub her fingers over him. Rhys’ groan from her actions, as she stroked him, seemed to be half of relief and half of desire. His cock in her hand was of a glorious size, and she wanted him in her, every inch, so they would be connected in all ways possible. She wanted to feel him inside her, she wanted to cling to him, say his name in silence as they made love, make him say her name as he came.

Rhys’ hand came down and gently clasped around her wrist, compelling her to stop, while his other hand tucked under her chin, tilting her head up so she was looking at him. Rhysand looked like a prince of the Night; smooth, pale skin, stunning violet eyes, his vast wings spread out behind him, dark hair shining in the light from the full moon directly behind his head. This was an image Feyre knew she had to paint, an image she had to keep in her mind and in her heart forever.

Rhys leaned his head forward and his lips met Feyre’s for just a moment; soft, light and heart-warming. Just that much of a touch expressed how much the two of them loved and trusted each other.

“You are something out of a dream, Feyre,” Rhys whispered, and Feyre felt herself blush, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she looked up at him. She felt something brush up against her arms, only to realise Rhys’ wings had curved up around her, making sure not to touch her back, providing a cocoon of warmth. “One day,” Rhys said, his voice hushed, as she slid a hand up his chest and around his neck, stroking through the short hairs at its nape, “One day when you are not in pain, my darling, I’ll have you on your back and I will taste you for as long as possible.”

Feyre’s heart skipped a beat, her face feeling flushed. She always knew Rhys had a way with words, but finally hearing him say such intimate things to her…

He was staring her right in the eyes, his fingers still under her chin, his thumb stroking over her bottom lip, a soft, loving smile on his lips. “I will make love to you for hours and hours, on your back, against a wall, whatever—We will disregard the world and it will be just us.” The thought of that, of being alone with Rhys and being with him in every way possible, hopefully at home in Velaris… Feyre knew it was something she would dream of from that night on.

She smiled, bright and happy, at noticed the twinkle in Rhys’ eyes in response. _I love you_ , she mouthed, and shifted her balance to the tips of her toes in order to reach his face. Rhys’ warm breath fanned against her face, one of his hands sliding to her hip, and he whispered, his voice low and husky, “I love you so much.”

And when their lips met, there was no holding back. Feyre let everything, everything that didn’t have to do with Rhys and this beautiful night, go, and kissed him with every bit of love and passion that had built up inside her, and he kissed her back with the same amount of fierceness. His throaty groans were music to her ears, and the way their bodies curved into each other felt like a most perfect fit. Both Feyre’s hands made their way to his hair, and when Rhys’ hands cupped her ass and lifted her, she hooked her legs around his hips, a silent moan escaping her lips upon the feeling their bodies pressing together.

With his wings still sheltering Feyre, Rhys slowly lowered the two of them onto the grass, laying back with Feyre on top of him, her hands now splayed on the ground on both sides of his head. This was another view Feyre wanted to remember forever, the image of Rhys under her, looking at her as if she held the world.

Feyre leaned down and pressed a chase kiss to Rhys’ lips, already swollen from so much kissing. She sat up then, Rhys’ wings brushing against her shoulders, her eyes locked on his as she brought up her hands and signed, _You are my world_.

Rhys looked to be on the verge of tears, and his hand came up to stroke her cheek. Feyre leaned her head towards his touch, and moved to let him use his other hand to raise his cock. And finally, when Feyre settled herself down on him, felt the entire enormity of him inside her, completing her, joining them, she noticed a flash of something—pain, darkness—in his eyes, before they faded into the same pleasure and love that he had been expressing all this time.

It didn’t take her too long to realise why, and her stomach tightened. She began to move against him slowly, Rhys’ hands on her hips guiding her movements, his own hips jerking up into her, bringing them into a perfect, slow rhythm. Feyre leaned forward, her face hovering over his as she rode him, both of them staring at each other, both moaning at the feeling and sight of each other that overwhelmed them so.

At the sight of a small tear at the corner of Rhys’ eye, Feyre’s heart broke, and she felt her own tears build up as she pressed her lips against his in the deepest, most tender kiss she could muster; a kiss that would convey to him everything she felt for him, everything she wanted to say:

_Remember me. Remember us. Remember this moment. When she tries anything on you, sits astride you as I am right now, forces you to give yourself up, remember that you have someone who loves you. Remember that I am here and I will love you forever and I will not rest until I can make you happy. Let these memories of us overpower the pain._

As if he actually understood her, a soft, choked sob escaped Rhys’ lips as he kissed her. “Feyre,” He whispered into her mouth, and Feyre’s heart broke with the emotion in his voice. “Feyre. Feyre. Feyre,” He repeated. “Oh, I love you, my Feyre. My darling.”

Feyre knew her own tears had formed and that they had joined Rhys’ on his cheeks. She realised that, in all her life, she had never quite felt anything like this; loving someone so deeply, wanting someone so desperately, wanting to be with them forever, in every way possible, as if a mere moment separated from him would kill her.

In that moment, everything felt so perfect. She was sharing a moment, so incredibly beautiful and intimate, under the night sky which felt even more starry than usual, with an open air view to the vast area that was her home, with the man who owned her heart, her soul. Rhysand. Her friend in a place of nightmares, her saviour even when he wasn’t really coming to her rescue, her lover who had admired her from a distance, who was willing to give up his own happiness for her, who had held her through countless moments of weaknesses, who let her hold him through his moments of weaknesses. Her world.

Feyre wasn’t even sure of anything other than Rhys and the moment of utter pleasure and bliss that they were sharing. They moved together, Rhys repeatedly moaning her name or telling her how much he loves her, Feyre doing the same in silence, only moving her mouth. She felt as if her body were on fire in desire, and when Rhys braced his feet on the grass and thrusted his hips up, slamming in deep, Feyre’s head tipped back and her mouth opened in the imitation of a scream of pleasure.

And as she came, Rhys did too, spilling into Feyre, both of them clutching at each other, panting softly, drinking up the feeling of being completely and intimately connected.

After calming down, Feyre found herself curled up next to Rhys, his wings still curved around them. They lay in silence, one of Rhys’ arms acting as a pillow for Feyre’s head as the two of them stared at each other, moved their fingers over each other’s faces, took in the fact that the other was really there and that moment was _real_.

Rhys was the first one to bring them back to reality. “I don’t know when we’ll get to be like this again,” He whispered, a small frown appearing on his face. It was a thought that had been nagging Feyre as well, but she hadn’t given it much importance until now, until the moment she realised that their little escape was nearing its end.

 _At least we got one moment_ , She signed, to which Rhys replied with a soft chuckle. _We will find more, though, Rhys. We will find happiness, and we will come back here to the Night Court, to Velaris, without having to hide._

Rhys’ expression brightened at this. “I do hope so, my darling,” He said. “You do realise that… If you would like, someday you may become High Lady of this court.”

A deep blush began to creep up on Feyre’s face. _You’ve thought that far already?_ She signed.

Rhys nodded eagerly.

 _I don’t know the first thing about being a High Lady_ , Feyre replied.

Rhys smiled, “I will only do as you wish, Feyre.”

Despite everything, Feyre was still surprised by the sincerity of Rhys’ words, of the unrelenting devotion towards her that he expressed in every way he looked, spoke and acted around her. It made her feel light, happy… almost at peace. Almost as if she were invincible if she had Rhysand loving her.

She had known constriction her entire life, and here was a man, a man who loved her so deeply, stepping back and letting her make her decisions, spread her own wings, live as freely as possible in her situation.

It made her heart explode with love for Rhysand. She decided that she would do anything for him; become his High Lady, or simply remain his lover, she would do anything to keep him as happy and at peace as he looked laying in front of her in that moment.

 _Well… High Lady does sound quite appealing_ , she signed, a light smirk on her lips. Rhys laughed softly, and Feyre’s eyelids fluttered close as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I think you would look absolutely delightful next to me. We’d make quite the pair, you know. Make everybody jealous.”

Feyre chuckled silently and rolled her eyes at Rhys. _But really_ , she signed, _High Lady of the Night Court… It fits, you know. I’ve always had a fascination with the night._

The jolliness in Rhys calmed down to a subtle excitement in his eyes. “You do?” He asked, his tone dazed.

Feyre smiled. _I do. Ever since I was little, I’ve always found comfort in the night. Under the stars, especially. When I couldn’t sleep, or if I was upset or troubled, I would find myself going outside and just looking at the stars and the moon. No counting, no deciphering constellations, just… staring. It calmed me down. I fell so deeply in love with it all that I somewhat made a symbol for myself out of them. Whenever I needed to indicate that something belonged to me, I would paint stars on them. Such as my drawer in our little dresser where my sisters and I lived._

_And now, I’m in love with the High Lord of the Night Court. And you love me. So… It just fits._

Rhys’ face was glowing with wonder, as if the common subject of night between them made their connection even stronger, or perhaps made them even more perfect for each other. Feyre smiled at his expression, something she had never seen before, and added it to the collection of images of Rhys that were permanently imbedded in her heart this night. She made him look like that. And she wanted to do the same for the rest of her life.

Rhys shifted his head closer to hers so their noses brushed together, his wings tucking in tighter around them, still making sure not to touch her back. Feyre closed her eyes, so her remaining senses could get drunk on the feeling of Rhys around her, his scent of jasmine and sea breeze, the light brushes of his wings against her skin, the places of his body that she was touching with her own, the feeling of his breath on her cheeks, his arm under her head, his hand on her waist.

“Perhaps we were fated to be together,” Rhys whispered.

Feyre smiled and nodded in agreement. Perhaps they were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. PORN. 
> 
> And on my first try!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeey guys so sorry for the late update. I really wanted to read and finish ACOWAR before I posted another chapter. And I have, so!! I know many people were disappointed, but I LOVED it!

Feyre had lost count of the number of days she had been in Under the Mountain, but, most of the time, her prolonged imprisonment didn’t bother her—thanks to Rhysand’s presence.

But ever since the night she was whipped, the night that was one of her worst but ended up her best, she had seen close to none of him, and her days in Under the Mountain began to stretch to unbearable lengths.

She put no fault on Rhys, though, because he wrote letters to her every night, hiding them amongst her dinners, explaining his absence. She kept every single letter, as substitute for his presence. Amarantha had been sending him off for numerous tasks, keeping him busy from the moment he woke up to the moment he fell asleep.

Some of his letters, though, mentioned to Feyre that she had looked beautiful while she slept the night prior, letting her know that, even being tired and overworked, he had still showed up to see her. She had, unfortunately, been asleep during those visits, but she could recall light, familiar touches against her cheek even in her sleep.

Feyre had spent most of her time reading the books Rhys had left for her. Most of them were about Prythian, and they were the ones that had interested her the most. Prythian’s history was like a fairytale, Feyre realised, as she read about how Rhysand and everyone else, these magic wielders, were descendants of Faeries, who used to be immortal, but over centuries came somewhere in-between mortality and immortality.

She wondered what the lifespan of Fae that she now lived amongst was like. Did they live and die as quickly as the mortals, like herself? Or would Rhys, Lucien, everyone, age slowly, over years and years, and die five hundred or so years after her?

If she didn’t die soon as a prisoner in Under the Mountain, that was. Because, even though she was happy with Rhys, she knew she was dying, perhaps not as slowly as before. With blood loss and pain, and already having thinned down so much. At least she was able to eat better, but it was still not good enough.

As if her thoughts about her death had triggered him, Rhys appeared in the dungeon. Or, at least, Feyre felt him appear. He wasn’t within eyesight yet, but… She could feel him, as always—not just his smell of jasmine and citrus and _home_ , but his very existence. Her heart hammered in her chest and she stood up, feeling him get closer and closer, a wave of relief washing over her as he finally stepped into view at the gates.

She watched him, her entire body buzzing with how much she missed him, as he stunned the guard with ease, and finally towards her, a small smile on his lips.

Rhys took quick strides across the expanse of the dungeon, to Feyre’s cell, and just as soon as the iron door slammed open with magic, Feyre launched herself at him, allowing him only a heartbeat to say, “Darling,” in a gleeful tone, before she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her face against his tunic.

Rhys’ just rumbled against hers as he laughed softly and his arms rose to wrap around Feyre’s lower back, lifting her off her feet, as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her shoulder, making her shiver after days of not holding him. “I missed you too,” He whispered against her ear. A sigh escaped Feyre’s lips as one of Rhys’ large, warm hands rose up to cup her cheek, the calluses on his fingers familiar and welcome as he stroked over her skin. She understood what he wanted, and pulled back, her face now in front of his, drinking in the sight of him as he stared at her for a few moments, stars dancing in his violet eyes, before his gaze flicked to her lips.

Feyre didn’t wait to tilt her face closer and join their lips in a kiss, a soft, comforted sound coming from Rhys as they connected. He kissed her gently, yet with so much longing and _want_ that Feyre felt herself melting into his arms. She missed him, holding him, kissing him, his lips on her skin, the smell of him filling her up, making her whole.

She lifted her hand, missing the presence of his beautiful wings, and instead brushed her fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck, attempting to deepen the kiss, not caring they were surrounded by filth, until Rhys pulled back abruptly. Startled, Feyre’s hands stopped their playing and froze where they were. She opened her eyes and looked at Rhys then, worried.

His face was still incredibly close to hers, eyes sparkling, short breaths escaping his lips and breezing against her face. Feyre could read no emotion other than the gentle, loving expression he always had when looking at her.

 _What’s wrong?_ She mouthed.

“We need to go,” He whispered.

 

* * *

 

 

Feyre hadn’t asked further questions; just simply followed Rhys as he led her quietly, carefully out of Under the Mountain, to where, she knew within seconds. _Home_ , they were going home. Rhys… He was always painfully cautious whenever it came to his Court.

Within a heartbeat, they were standing in the foyer of the town house, the atmosphere familiar and homely despite Feyre having only been in it once, for very little time. She could feel her body warm up immediately with the fire in the living room heating up the house. A little shudder of relief escaped her, and immediately Rhys’ arm was around her shoulders, tucking her in against him. His wings appeared then, one of them curving around her, brushing against her shoulder.

Feyre huddled into the comfort that emitted from him, at the joy inside her of being back inside Velaris, of being momentarily home, being able to pretend, just for a while, that she was free, at home with Rhys.

“I’ve asked everyone to meet us here,” Rhys said, as he walked her towards the stairs. “But it’ll take about an hour or so for them to get here. Would you like a bath and a nap?”

Feyre was quick to nod eagerly, and held on to Rhys as they walked toward her unused room, the massive bed, neatly made, still waiting for her, and the bathtub that already had water and bubbles waiting for her. She smiled at Rhys’ thoughtfulness, of having someone fill a bath for her, and leaned on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek.

He looked a little startled at the gesture, and then grinned down at her. “My pleasure, Feyre darling,” He said, a chirpy tone masking the tension that he clearly held within him. Feyre only gave him a squeeze and then let go of him, striding toward the bathroom and taking off her clothes in the process.

Rhys followed her, his footsteps light and silent behind her. She could feel his stare drilling into the back of her head, over her body, now healthier in spite of the several torture scars and dirt marks all over her pale skin. Feyre padded toward the tub, lifting a leg and stepping into it, as Rhys came up behind her, still quiet, and held her arm to help her get in.

A silent sigh escaped Feyre’s lips at the warmth and comfort of the water, and as she settled herself into the tub, she watched Rhys sit in the edge of it, rolling up the dark sleeves of his tunic, his entire posture tense.

Feyre reached up a wet hand and grasped Rhys’ large one, their fingers immediately interlocking, the tightness of Rhys’ grip surprising her. She pulled his hand towards her lips, pressing a soft kiss against his knuckles, making him turn his head to look at her.

 _Tell me_ , She mouthed, to which Rhys replied with a small smile, and he leaned down to kiss her once. Twice. “Later,” He said, brushing his nose against hers, making Feyre’s heart flutter. “Let’s get you clean first.”

Rhys then lifted a bar of soap and took Feyre’s hand in his free one, proceeding to rub the soap against her arm, gently scrubbing away the dirt caked on her skin. Feyre watched him the entire time, as he moved from her arm to her chest, faltering just momentarily over her breasts, a primal hunger reflecting in his eyes, and then continuing to the rest of her body. She watched him as he washed her hair, all the while sitting there in awe of him. Of how gently and carefully he handled her, of how concentrated and at peace he looked. The activity seemed to calm him a little, and Feyre felt her entire heart fill up with how much she loved him, how much she wanted to see him stay this calm forever; to do something as mundane as take a bath with him in their own home, with nothing, no evil queens, no darkness, to worry about.

Rhys was beyond careful when he began to work on her back. The soap stung Feyre’s cuts slightly, and her body tensed up in the pain.

Rhys pulled back immediately, cringing. “I’m so sorry,” He said, guilt dripping from his voice. It broke Feyre’s heart, seeing how causing her just a little, unintentional pain, made him feel. Seeing how selflessly he loved her. She shook her head slowly and turned her head to look at him, offering him a small smile. _It’s okay_ , She mouthed.

Rhys nodded slowly. “Should… Should I go on?” He asked, barely audible, hesitant.

Feyre’s heart tugged. She nodded.

So Rhys continued, his touches so light, as if he were truly, incredibly afraid to hurt her. “Amren will fix these,” He said; his voice was distant, but Feyre knew it was his controlled rage that had taken over.

“I’ll kill her,” Rhys said. Them. Amarantha. Attor, that guard who leashed you—I..” His voice broke, and Feyre found his free hand, giving it a tight squeeze, which he returned. So many emotions built up in him… So much pain that he kept bottled up.

Feyre turned to him then, and Rhys looked at her, his chest heaving, as if fighting to keep his rage caged, violet eyes blazing as he studied her face. She reached up and stroked her fingers, now wrinkled in the water, against his cheek, making his eyes flutter as he tilted his head toward her touch, a deep sigh escaping his lips.

When he looked at her again, Feyre mouthed, _I love you_.

Rhys looked like he was on the verge of tears when he replied, “I love you with everything I am.”

Feyre stood up then, gripping the edge of the bathtub, before Rhys held her hands and helped her step out. He didn’t say anything as she took him by the hand and led him back into the bedroom, as she kissed him and rid him of his clothes. He was so tensed, so anxious. She wanted, just for a moment, to distract him, relax him. So she pushed him gently toward her bed, the soft covers welcoming Rhys as he sat on it, fully naked before Feyre.

“Oh Feyre,” Rhys said, in thanks, as she knelt in front of him and put her mouth to him. And when she was done, Rhys laid back on the bed, his head nestled against the pillows as she climbed him, as she made love to him, savouring that moment that was just theirs, telling each other with their bodies how much they loved each other, as Rhys held her and they moved together and finally, came together.

Afterwards, they still had time to spare, so Rhys tucked Feyre close against his side, letting her curl up against his chest. She didn’t know how many days it had been since she had last lain on a bed; sleep had already been nagging at her as soon as she relaxed into the soft cotton of the pillows and blankets around her.

“I’ll wake you when Amren arrives. Sleep, Feyre,” Rhys whispered against the top of her head, as Feyre tucked her face against the crook of his neck, her arm moving around his chest. Rhys’ wing curved around them, cocooning them as Feyre closed her eyes and held tightly onto him, slowly drifting off to sleep.

She dreamt of her life, her potential life, at Rhys’ side in the Night Court, where they, and their family, were happy and at peace.

 

* * *

 

 

When Feyre awoke, she was already dressed in Night Court fashion, similar to Rhys’ own taste, and Rhys was gone, his side of the bed still warm.

“Well, that whipping must have been a bitch.”

Startled, Feyre shot up in bed, ignoring the pain in her back as she did so, until she noticed her companion. Amren had just entered the room, standing between the door and its frame, her usual, amused grin plastered on her lips.

Feyre breathed a sigh of relief and threw a smile at Amren, who simply entered the room and shut the door behind her.

“The bats are already here,” She said, clearly referring to Azriel and Cassian, “And Morrigan is on her way, so we need to do this quickly.” Feyre knew she meant healing her cuts, and she nodded, sliding her tunic off and turning her back to Amren, who came to sit behind her.

“It’s good to see you still in one piece after everything,” Amren said as she began working. Feyre felt gentle brushes of… magic? against her back. “You have spirit, Feyre. It’s no surprise the High Lord fell in love with you.”

Feyre only turned her head and mouthed a _thank you_ in reply, her cheeks heating.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Amren was done and Feyre had followed her downstairs, Mor was sitting in the living room, along with Azriel, Cassian and Rhysand.

Feyre had barely stepped a foot into the room when Mor shot up pulled Feyre into her arms, enveloping her in a tight hug. Feyre returned it, her arms coming up around Mor, who was taller than her, and hugging her tight, her face against the taller woman’s shoulder.

“Mor.” A gleeful tone. Cassian. “Let her breathe.”

“Shut up, Cassian,” Mor mumbled, and pulled back, holding Feyre at arm’s length, a smile on her lips. “I missed you,” She said.

Before Feyre could reply, Cassian stepped into view, a broad grin on his face as he gave Feyre a one-armed hug. Feyre returned it, too, with just as much joy. “I hope my bastard brother has been taking care of you,” He said.

“This bastard,” Rhys’ voice came from behind her, “Happens to be your High Lord.”

Feyre noticed Mor roll her eyes, and Azriel shake his head. It was Cassian’s turn to mumble “shut up.”

When she and Cassian pulled back, Azriel simply greeted her with a smile. “You’re looking much better,” He spoke, “I’m glad.”

Feyre’s heart broke, realising how quickly she had made an impact on Rhys’ family. How quickly she had been accepted into their Circle.

She felt Rhys’ hand on the small of her back and she looked up, smiling at him, which he returned. As she had noticed before, Rhys already looked happier, calmer, once he was home and around his family. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead, which Feyre noticed the rest of the people in the room watch carefully—from their expressions, she knew Rhys had already told them of what had happened between the two of them.

“Sit,” Rhys requested, his tone suddenly serious, as he led Feyre to a dark loveseat next to the fireplace in the middle of the room. The others followed suit, the entire group forming a semi-circle around the fire, everyone looking expectantly toward their High Lord.

Rhys removed his hand from Feyre’s back, and instead leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Instinctively, Feyre rested her hand on his arm, to which Rhys sent her a grateful glance. The tension was heavy in the room, in the silence in it, except for the crackling fire.

“I think Amarantha’s close to finding the Cauldron,” Rhys finally said.

There was a gasp—Mor—followed by mumbled swears from Cassian and Azriel.

The Cauldron. Feyre had read about it. Fae folk believed that the Cauldron had created all life, and was the source of all power.

If it was power, and if Amarantha had it…

“I’m not sure what she plans to do with it,” Rhys explained, “But it won’t be anything good.”

It was Cassian who asked, “How do you know?” It was the first time Feyre had ever heard the Illyrian Commander sound so serious, to tense.

Rhys’ jaw clenched. “She’s been sending me on various errands… But she won’t tell me her plans; I don’t think she trusts me as much as before. Not since…” Rhys didn’t continue, but Feyre understood. The others cast their glances away from her, as if trying not to guilt her. She simply squeezed Rhys’ arm, mouthing, I’m sorry, when he turned his head to her.

Rhys shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” He said, his hand resting atop her own, his fingers lightly brushing over her skin.

From Feyre’s left, Mor reached over and gave her shoulder a light squeeze, offering a smile when she turned to her, before looking toward everyone else. “If she’s close to finding the Cauldron,” She said, eyes blazing, “And if you’re not able to acquire good information anymore, Rhys… We need to act fast.”

“I agree,” Rhys said. “I wouldn’t have risked coming here again had it not been… Urgent.”

“We can’t really do shit considering you’ve bound us to the city,” Mor mumbled, to which Rhys stilled under Feyre’s hand, guilt taking over his expressions.

“Mor,” Azriel whispered, and Feyre turned her head towards the Shadowsinger, watching him place a large, scarred hand on Mor’s knee, a cautious look on his face as he looked at the blonde. “Not now,” He said.

Mor only glanced at him, expressionless.

“Well, Rhys, Mor _is_ right,” Cassian insisted, yet with much less bite than Mor.

“I know I’ve bound you to this place, but…” Rhys looked so guilty, so upset. “For now, please, to protect the city; please, you need to stay here.” He was begging them, and it tore at Feyre’s heart to hear him so desperate. She only gave his arm another squeeze.

Azriel moved his hand away from Mor’s knee, clasped it with his other, and looked at his High Lord. “What do you want us to do?”

“Send messages, spy, ready an army,” Rhys said. “All the High Lords… except Tamlin,” Rhys’ voice held venom as he spoke the name of the High Lord of the Spring Court; Feyre squirmed, “Are in Under the Mountain most of the time, usually being watched. Even I am watched. Getting messages to them will be too risky.”

“Viviane,” Mor said quickly, eyes wide. “I heard Kallias left her in charge at the Winter Court. I’ll send a message to her.”

Rhys nodded. “And Amren, are you still acquainted with Prince Varian from Summer?”

A broad smirk played at Amren’s lips, and she gave Rhys a slow nod. “Of course, High Lord,” She said. Feyre noticed Cassian shudder, and Azriel shot him a look, as if reprimanding him from making any comments.

“Good,” Rhys said. “Azriel, your shadows…?”

“I’m sure I can get a message to Dawn and Day,” Azriel confirmed, “But Spring and Autumn will be tricky, with Tamlin’s grudge against us and Beron…”

“And with Beron being a selfish little bitch,” Cassian finished for him.

Azriel gave him an annoyed look, but a small smile quipped at Rhys’ lips. “Well, Az, he’s not wrong.”

Azriel chuckled this time, just as Feyre realised… She was their bridge to Spring.

Picking up the writing pad Rhys had got for her, the one that she kept at her side all the time, Feyre quickly scribbled, _I can get a message to Tamlin._

Everyone had been watching her, it seemed, as Feyre lifted her pad, displaying her writing to them, finding them all already looking at her.

Amren raised an eyebrow, while Cassian, Mor and Azriel, together, were quick to say, “No.”

Rhys only studied her cautiously, before saying, his voice soft. “Feyre, if you go back there…”

Feyre shook her head, and then wrote down, _Lucien should be visiting me tomorrow. I can tell him. And get Tamlin to send a message to Autumn._

When she lifted the satchel to show everyone, Azriel shook his head. “You’ll be in Under the Mountain, it’s too dangerous. They have ears everywhere.”

A smirk stretched at Feyre’s lips, and she replied with her pen and paper, _Ears will do them no good. Sign language is not a Fae language; Lucien and Tamlin learned from mortal books._

Azriel and Cassian’s heads tilted, as if considering the option. Rhys smiled, coming close and planting a kiss on Feyre’s forehead. “Perfect.”

Feyre only smiled in reply.

“I’ll prepare the Illyrians,” Cassian spoke. “We need to tell all other courts to keep their armies and protection ready.”

Rhys nodded. “Az,” He said, turning to the Shadowsinger, “I have two more jobs for you.”

Everyone looked between Azriel and Rhys then. “First,” said Rhys, “I need you to track down Miryam and Drakon.”

“Why—” Mor began, and Feyre’s curiosity peaked.

It was Cassian who interjected, “Their army is about as big as all of Prythian’s armies combined, possibly bigger.”

An entire legion of warriors. But… Did Amarantha have that many men in her own army?

Mor frowned, turning toward Rhys. “Why?” She asked, “She doesn’t have that many cronies.”

Azriel frowned this time, as if considering something, as Rhys said, “She has an army hidden somewhere.”

“I looked everywhere,” Azriel argued, “Even my shadows… No trace.”

Rhys shook his head. “She’s using her spell book. Concealing them from even your shadows. I thought it may have just been a rumour when you came back from your search empty handed, but I’ve managed to gather that much information recently. And from what I’ve learned… It’s larger than all of Prythian’s armies combined, including both of the Night Court’s armies.”

Feyre tensed, as did the rest of the Circle. They sat together in silence for a while, some watching the fire crackle, others staring at the carpet, Feyre herself watching Rhys, the tension and stress lining his face.

“Rhys,” Azriel said, “You said you had _two_ jobs for me.”

Rhys seemed pained as he nodded, sitting up this time and reaching around Feyre, pulling her closer. The other four watched, concerned, as Feyre shifted closer to Rhys, her hand resting on his chest, frowning as she looked at him.

“Your other job… To spy. Her plans…” Rhys hesitated, glancing at Feyre. “I think she plans to use mortals to experiment on the Cauldron.”

Dead silence.

_Mortals._

There were mortals just over the border.

Her sisters—Nesta, Elain—

Feyre herself was a mortal.

Everyone must have realised so, because Mor said quickly, her hand quickly grasping Feyre’s own, “Feyre is the only mortal in Prythian. She’ll be the first target; Amarantha already hates her—”

Cassian growled. “Rhys, you have to get her out of there. Leave her here, we’ll protect her; she’ll be safe.” He pinned Rhys with a stern look, as if angry his High Lord was taking no action yet.

“Cassian,” Azriel said. “He can’t. Rhys literally can’t take Feyre out of there.” He was staring at Feyre then, looking distraught.

Tamlin and Amarantha had a bargain. Feyre knew that. She knew she was trapped by the bargain, by its magic. Rhys couldn’t bring her out, even if he was willing to risk the safety of his court.

Rhys’ voice had come down to a mere whisper and he held Feyre tighter. “I can’t,” He spoke. “I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I only just found out, and… I had to get you out, Feyre, just for a moment. I was that afraid. And, I’m sorry I can’t get you out. If… If I do, the bargain… It might kill Tamlin, or worse, because Tamlin had nothing to do with it, it might kill _you_.”

As Rhys’ voice broke, Feyre held him tighter.

“Or you,” Mor said, eyes widening in realisation. “If you interfere with the bargain, you might be the one who dies.”

“Let me,” Azriel said quickly, and Feyre’s breath caught in her throat. “Rhys, let me do it.” He looked completely serious as he gazed toward Feyre and Rhys. She had nothing to say.

“Az,” Cassian said, as soon as Mor shot a glare at Azriel. Amren remained silent, observing the meeting.

Azriel, willing to die for her.

Feyre couldn’t handle it.

“No,” Rhys said simply, and as Azriel began to argue, Rhys continued, “You think, if I was certain that the bargain would kill the interceptor, or Tamlin, instead of Feyre, I wouldn’t have brought her home by now?”

Feyre could have sworn her heart had stopped. She swallowed the lump in her throat, blinking back the tears that stung her eyes. Rhys, self-sacrificial, always putting others before him—

She shot to her feet, nostrils flaring and cheeks heated, making everyone start and look up at her. She held up her hands and signed, _No one is sacrificing themselves for me._

As the Circle watched her, confused, Rhys translated for them, his hand reaching out and resting on her lower back, as if making sure she was still there, afraid that she would disappear if he stopped touching her.

 _We just need to work quickly_ , Feyre signed, and sat back down as Rhys translated for the rest. He tucked her in close against him, his grip tight, but not hurting. As if reassuring himself she would be okay.

Cassian looked at Rhys pointedly. “Don’t you dare let her out of your sight,” He said.

Rhys was only staring at Feyre’s hands.

“And train her,” Cassian continued, “I won’t be able to, given her circumstances. But I don’t care where or how, you better train her. She needs to be able to defend herself.”

Rhys only nodded slowly. “I will.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Circle had spent several minutes sitting in silence, Rhys holding Feyre tight, possibly to reassure himself more than her. Feyre spent the entire time rubbing circles on his back, while observing the rest of the group. Their small, odd family. People who were willing to risk their lives for her, even after barely knowing her for long.

She didn’t know what she had done to deserve that.

And finally, as Rhys and Feyre were preparing to leave, as Rhys stepped aside to discuss certain matters with Azriel and Cassian, Amren, who had been quiet throughout the entire meeting, stepped up next to Feyre.

“We need to talk,” was all she said, before walking in the direction of the kitchen.

Curious, Feyre glanced quickly towards where the three men and Mor were talking, and then walked into the kitchen, where Amren stood, head tilted, observing Feyre with her eyes slightly narrowed.

As soon as Feyre stepped closer to her, Amren said, in a hushed tone, “You can kill Amarantha.”

Feyre’s insides gave a little jolt; she hadn’t been expecting something like that. She could kill—but, Amarantha had a magical protection around herself. Rhys, even the most powerful High Lord in Prythian, had tried and failed.

And this was exactly what she wrote on her pad, showing it to Amren.

Amren only shook her head. “You are not of Prythian, girl,” She said, “I have the power to kill her, so does Rhys, but… My body is of Prythian, even if I am not. It is a Fae body. I am also bound to Velaris. And Rhysand was born here, he was born Fae. The magic that Amarantha has was born in Prythian. Magic of all Faeries. But not only are _you_ mortal, you are not born Fae. That gives you the ability to bypass her magic.”

Feyre stood stunned, taking in all the information, taking in her potential to kill Amarantha, to free Prythian, Rhys, her home…

But…

Why aren’t you saying this to everyone else? She wrote.

“Because there is a risk,” Amren said, her tone deathly calm. “While you may be able to bypass Amarantha’s magic, your mortality and birth is still nowhere near enough to kill her, especially if she has the Cauldron at her side.”

The Cauldron. If it had created all power, it would be too difficult for a mortal to get past.

Amren seemed to have understood Feyre’s realisation, because she said, “Yes, so you understand. But if you were _Made_ , from all seven High Lords, then you would have incredible power… Enough to kill her.”

Feyre’s heart was beating so fast it would have jumped out of her chest.

“Here’s where the risk lies,” Amren went on. “That much power… Taking it in, it might be too much for you to take. It might kill you as soon as it begins to become a part of you. Rhys… I’m not sure if he would risk that.”

Feyre stood still, as Amren pinned her with a still contemplative gaze. She could end this, she could free them, only at the cost of herself.

And if it meant that her death would bring a better future for Rhys, for Lucien and her family here in Velaris… For all of Prythian…

 _I will take care of it_ , She wrote to Amren. _I will do anything to save all of you, and Prythian_.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is an entire 1k words longer than usual!! Still not beta'd; I'm having to edit my own work and it's not so easy.

Rhys was awoken by the sound of fists pounding against his bedroom door. He wasn’t even sure what time it was; he had forced himself to leave Feyre in her cell the previous night—as always, heavy with guilt knowing she was living in filth, in darkness, in the cold, while he himself slept in his own bedroom with several luxuries.

Rhys had been so frustrated and exhausted by all he had learned of Amarantha’s plans, and by making his own plans with his Circle, that he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the dark pillows of his bed in Under the Mountain, and though he was plagued by nightmares, now much, much worse than before—several of them involving Feyre herself, as Amarantha’s possible target—his sleep was relatively deep.

Perhaps too deep, he thought, as threw himself out of bed and begrudgingly put his clothes on, making his way to the door. Perhaps he had overslept and failed to fulfil one of Amarantha’s commands, possibly making her question his loyalties to the point where his carefully constructed lies would topple over. Or worse, perhaps she had already gotten her hands on Feyre, hurt her, killed—

But when he opened the door, both relief and disgust raced through him.

Amarantha stood in front of him, long red hair down, running over her breasts, which were themselves only half covered by the red dress she wore, its long neck tipping in a V all the way down to her navel. She was guarded, as usual, by two men, who stood behind her and pinned Rhys with nasty glares.

Rhys only cast them a bored look before looking down at Amarantha, who in turn gazed at him with a steely look in her eyes, still a feline smirk on her ruby lips.

Bitch was the first word that popped into Rhys’ head.

If Amarantha had personally showed up at his room, she was only concerned with one thing. That was what relieved Rhys—not that Amarantha was more than willing to get fucked no matter what she had done prior—but he knew that, if she had hurt Feyre, she would have made sure he was present. He knew Amarantha suspected he cared for Feyre. He knew he was walking on thin ice.

The fact that she was actually there, in front of him, was what disgusted him.

“My lady,” Rhys greeted, forcing his voice to radiate the sardonic, smooth tone that he usually went for around her. As he bowed his head for her, Amarantha simply said, “Rhysand,” in an airy tone, before sauntering past him into his room.

“Close the door, my pet,” She ordered over her shoulder, and Rhys did as she commanded.

Bile rose up in his throat as he watched her survey his room, as if to find any hints of betrayal in it. He hadn’t bedded the bitch, hadn’t been able to bring himself to even touch her sensually amidst meetings, since his night with Feyre under the stars.

He belonged to Feyre now—well, he probably belonged to her from the moment he had first laid eyes on her, but now that he was hers and she was _his_ … It felt wrong to touch or even look at another woman like that, even if it was just pretend. Feyre had told him, repeatedly reassured him, that she understood, that she wouldn’t be angry or upset if he continued to serve Amarantha this way, because he was doing it for their home.

But that didn’t make actually having to do it any easier. In fact, it made things harder.

It made him wonder what he had ever done to deserve Feyre. What he, who had done so many unforgivable, cruel things, who was always a liar, a cheat, had done to deserve the relentless, unconditional love that Feyre offered him, that reflected in her eyes every time she looked at him.

Too much. It was too much. In the past, he thought he was undeserving of the love his family gave him; he hadn’t even been ready for the love that was awaiting him in Feyre’s arms—that was something, he knew, he was completely undeserving of. She had seen him be a monster, had endured him being a monster to her, and still…

“Troubled, Rhysand?” Amarantha’s teasing voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Rhys forced down the growl that was rumbling at the bottom of his throat, and instead straightened up.

“Not when you are present, my queen,” he replied, a smile plastered on his lips as he slowly walked across the expanse of his room to where she stood at the foot of his bed.

He admitted that Amarantha was strikingly pretty, but he couldn’t place her beauty anywhere near Feyre’s, whose face, body, everything, made his heart stop. So he focused on that, reminded himself of the woman who waited for him, loved him and whom he loved back, as he forced himself to fuck the Queen. _Feyre. Mor. Cassian. Azriel. Amren. Velaris_ , he chanted in his head again and again, even once Amarantha reached her climax and moved off of him, just to keep some restraint on himself to make sure he didn’t try launching himself at h er and ripping her throat out.

 

 

Lucien was stood up when Feyre was escorted into the tiny stone room in which they met every time he visited her.

He was staring at her, with both his normal and metal eyes, as soon as she entered, and she was staring back. Her friend was stiff, his face echoing a thousand questions, each possibly dripping with concern. Even in the nimble light in the room, she could tell he had thinned significantly since she last saw him; his eyes had shadows around them, and his face, now pale with fatigue, sported a short, unkempt red beard. His paleness made the angry scar on his face more prominent, and Feyre’s fist clenched, nails digging into her palm in reminder of who had created that, who had been responsible for taking Lucien’s eye out.

“Are you okay?”

His voice was strained, hesitant, as he asked the question, his head tilting to the side in concern. Feyre nodded her reply, and Lucien’s shoulders slumped, visibly easing up.

Are you? Feyre raised her hands and signed to him. Lucien cast a split-second’s glance at her hands before he looked back up at her and nodded.

Before she knew it, before her brain had really processed the impulse, Feyre had strode across the room and launched herself at him. Lucien let out a small gasp of surprise, but his strong arms were around her waist, squeezing her tight, lifting her up, just as Feyre pressed herself up against his broad chest, her own arms snaking around his neck. Lucien’s head tilted forward until Feyre felt him rest his forehead against her shoulder, while she relaxed hers against the top of his. He was trembling slightly, and Feyre realised, so was she, as she finally noticed the tears that were swimming down her cheeks.

“You stupid, _stupid_ girl…” Lucien rasped against her shoulder, holding her tighter, but not hurting her. “You could have _died_ , Feyre.” There was so much guilt in his voice.

Feyre pulled back slightly, her hands at the side of her friend’s face, her fingers brushing up against the copper hairs at his cheekbones, gently coaxing him to look at her. Lucien raised his head, and Feyre’s heart almost broke seeing the pain in his sharp features, in his tensed up appearance.  She retracted her hands then, and in the small distance between them signed, something that she had known in her heart but had never quite thought to herself, _If I had died to save you, it would have been an honour. You are my dearest friend._

Lucien’s face squeezed up before he let out a slow breath. “And you are mine,” He said as he slowly let Feyre down to her feet. “You absolute fool,” He added, holding her steady as she stepped back and settled her tired feet, tired body on the uneven stone floor.

Feyre only threw him a teasing smile in reply, before taking a seat on one of the pair of small, rickety chairs, matching an old, weak table, that was left in the room for them. Lucien picked up his own chair, pulling it around the table and right in front of Feyre. When he sat down, they were knee to knee—well, more like Feyre’s knee to Lucien’s shin.

Her friend looked at her so intently, so apologetically, as he said, “I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you the last two weeks.” And that was when, finally, Feyre once again gained track of time. It had been _three weeks_ since Amarantha had whipped her—why had she not done it again?

But Feyre pushed the question aside. Later—she would inquire about it later; she was short on time now. She needed to tell Lucien everything, before it was too late, before she had to wait an entire week to see him, or perhaps never see him at all.

She raised her hands to start, but Lucien spoke first.

“When I felt you fall to the floor, that day, Feyre… I was so sure they had killed you. I was so angry. You should have heard the way Tamlin roared, o-or the way even Rhysand called your name…” Feyre’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of Rhys. Lucien reached forward and took Feyre’s pale, scarred hands into his own larger, calloused ones, giving them a squeeze, which Feyre returned. His russet eye was whirring, the loudest sound in the room with Lucien speaking so quietly, so faintly. “I fainted just moments after,” He said, “And when I woke up at the Spring Court a day later, I refused to be told of anything other than that of your health. And when they told me you survived…” A relieved smile spread across his face, and Feyre gave his hands a squeeze, trying to tell him she felt the exact relief when she found out he was okay, safe.

“I was still bedridden for a week,” Lucien continued. “Without magic, it was difficult to heal me.” Feyre pushed down the guilt that had rose up in her, realising that while Lucien had suffered, she had been healed so quickly, first by Under the Mountain’s feeble magic, and then by Amren’s otherworldly magic.

 _You are well now_ , Feyre signed, _I am beyond glad. I can’t bear the thought of you dead, especially at her hands._

Lucien smiled. “That bitch isn’t getting rid of me that easily, I can promise you.” Feyre’s heart warmed slightly at his resilience. “Tamlin still forbid me to come see you here, though, because Amarantha still wants my head mounted on a stick.”

 _I agree, though_ , Feyre found herself signing. It was dangerous for Lucien of all people to be here, with Amarantha’s cronies everywhere, with Tamlin not around to protect him.

Lucien shook his head. “I had to come, Feyre. At least today. I begged him to let me come here and tell you first.” A bright, joyful smile was on his face. “Tamlin got the money, Feyre. He’s coming tomorrow. You can leave, you can come home with us.” He took her hands in his again and squeezed them, as if finally telling her let out all the tension from his body.

Feyre sat frozen, unsure how to feel. She would have her freedom, not only from her slow decay Under the Mountain, but from her vulnerability as Amarantha’s possible victim, as a mortal. But… she would be leaving Rhys to suffer the place, to suffer Amarantha, alone… She would be returning to Tamlin, to the Spring Court, locked up and treated more like a ceramic doll than a person. She would be giving up her easy shot at killing Amarantha—and she knew that, as Tamlin’s plaything, she would be forbidden from anything as dangerous as this.

“Feyre?” Lucien asked, his voice soft. “You’ll be home. In the manor, protected. Safe… What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t… She had one alternative, but she doubted Tamlin would ever agree, and she would have to give up Rhys even with this alternative… But she would be home.

Feyre pulled her hands away from Lucien’s, her lip trembling with nerves, while her friend sat as frozen as a statue. She took out a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her pants and tucked it in Lucien’s palm. _Give this to him, please. Tell Tamlin_ , Feyre signed, _That I will wait for him to arrive with the money tomorrow. But I will not return to the Spring Court with him. I will go home to the Night Court_.

Lucien’s eyes widened and within a second, he had snapped up straight, disbelief on his face. “Wha— _Night Court_?!” He questioned, voice raised.

Feyre nearly jumped out of her seat in panic, quickly grabbing his shoulder as he began standing up and pressing her finger up against her lips in a _shush_ indication. Lucien’s chest was heaving with shock and possibly, rage, as Feyre coaxed him back onto his seat, retracting her hands to sign, _Please, there are ears everywhere._

She watched her friend for a few moments as he calmed himself, a large hand rising up and combing through the tied up hair at his scalp, which inevitably loosened up his long red braid. He stopped midway though, his hands braced on his knees. He pinned her with a fierce gaze, so different from the glee that he had just a moment ago. “What did Rhysand do to you,” He demanded, quietly, yet still with a snarl.

Feyre’s nostrils flared in anger at the blame pointed towards Rhys, but she replied calmly, Nothing. _He has been my friend, just as you have._

Lucien glared at her. “What did I tell you Feyre, I told you not to—”

 _Do you think me naïve, Lucien_? She asked then.

Lucien seemed to be taken aback, and he took a moment to collect himself, before shaking his head. “You are one of the smartest, bravest people I know,” He confessed, his voice hushed, hurt, as he looked at where their knees touched.

Feyre fought not to reach out for him, and instead continued, _I do not love Tamlin anymore, Lucien. Not after everything…_

“He _has_ tried,” Lucien pleaded. “He loves you, Feyre. He wants you home, safe, just as much as I do.”

 _If he wanted me home just as much as you do, he would have accepted the money Rhys offered_ , Feyre argued. _He chose his pride over me, while I gave my life, my freedom, for him. And now, he would rather have me locked up than see me near Rhysand, all out of_ pride—

“Rhysand killed Tamlin’s family,” Lucien interjected, another snarl accompanying his statement.

And Tamlin killed Rhysand’s, Feyre replied, camly, forcing her heartbeat and her breathing to slow from their heightened speeds. Tamlin started it, may I add. All because his father was jealous.

Lucien remained quiet for what felt like a long time, staring at his hands, resting on his lap. Feyre watched him carefully, not wanting to agitate him, anger him, hurt him. She also didn’t know what to say, but she knew she was running short on time. She needed to tell him everything, and quick.

But just as she was about to raise her hands to sign, Lucien whispered, “You’ve fallen in love with him. Rhysand.”

Feyre hesitated, not sure if her admittance would risk Tamlin’s compliance with everything, but as Lucien looked up at her… Her face must have given it away.

He shook his head slowly, his hand coming up to his hair, his fingers once again combing through it, messing up his neatly tied braid. “I suspected… something,” He confessed, before looking at her, his expression unreadable. Neutral. “That day, when you came to the Spring Court, the way you moved to him, the way he looked at you, came to you, as if your safety was his primary instinct.” Lucien sighed. “And I heard it, too, when he called out your name as you were whipped… I have never seen Rhysand so… ruffled.”

 Feyre could only sit in silence and count her heartbeats as she tried and tried to calm them down, to come to ease. The thought of Rhys like that…

“But he betrayed Prythian, Feyre,” Lucien reasoned.

A faint smile crept its way to Feyre’s lips as she confidently shook her head. He is Prythian’s spy, unbeknownst to all of you, she said.

Lucien stared.

Feyre began signing, He… He has discovered that Amarantha is close to finding the Cauldron—and be quiet, don’t even whisper about it in here, She warned quickly, remembering Azriel’s warning of Amarantha having ears everywhere.

Lucien’s eyes were wide, his lips parted in shock. The Cauldron? He mouthed, to which Feyre nodded.

She signed her reply, explaining how Rhys had been loaded with work all of a sudden, of how Amarantha no longer fully trusted him, thanks to how much he clearly cared for Feyre, of the fact that Rhys had already arranged letters to four other Courts regarding the matter, of the fact that Amarantha planned on using mortals, possibly Feyre herself, to experiment on the Cauldron. Lucien listened quietly as she narrated everything, panic and shock not leaving his face, his body tense again.

She didn’t tell him that she had the potential to kill Amarantha. No, that would remain a secret between herself and Amren.

 _I need you to convince Tamlin to be civil with Rhys, to work together with everyone else_ , Feyre signed, to which Lucien snorted. She shot a glare at him, and he recoiled, nodding slowly.

“I will, as soon as I return.”

Feyre hesitated, knowing Lucien’s relationship with his family probably wasn’t the best, before signing, _And I need you to get the message to your father._

Lucien stilled for a second, glancing at her and then at her lap, before nodding. Feyre could tell the thought of his former home discomforted him. “I am the emissary of the Spring Court,” Lucien said, “I’ll get it done.”

A sad smile found its way to Feyre’s lips as she signed, _Thank you._

They sat in silence for a while after that, neither of them really knowing what to say. But Feyre didn’t mind; she was grateful to be in Lucien’s presence at all.

“So…” Lucien broke the silence after a few minutes, “Does this mean I won’t see you again?”

The realisation hadn’t dawned upon Feyre until that moment: that, in going home, she may be losing her closest friend. Her stomach tightened as she gazed at Lucien, tense, upset… even hurt; he wasn’t looking at her anymore, as if he couldn’t bear it. They would still remain in Prythian, but in opposite ends of it, possibly never seeing each other—and definitely never being as close as this if they ever got to meet…

Feyre reached out and touched Lucien’s scruff-roughened cheek, making him look up at her. The sight of him, looking like an upset boy, made tears well up in her eyes. She offered him a small smile, and signed, _You won’t get rid of me that easily. We’ll see each other again, and we’ll be like us again, not the way we pretend in front of Tamlin._

Lucien let out a dark laugh and shook his head. “Once you go to the Night Court, once your relationship with Rhys becomes clear and he accepts it, he probably won’t let you near our Court. And he’ll reduce our interactions with your Court to as seldom as possible.”

 _I don’t care_ , Feyre was quick to reply. _I will see you again, Lucien._

It was Lucien’s turn to smile, that beautiful softness returning to his sharp features as he placed a broad hand on Feyre’s. “I will make sure you do, Feyre.”

 

 

Each step back into the mansion was harder and harder than the last.

Lucien was anxious of Tamlin’s reaction—to Feyre not coming back, to Rhysand’s news of Amarantha finding the Cauldron—and he was also upset.

He had left this place thinking he would bring his greatest friend back home to it in a day, and now… Saying goodbye to Feyre was one of the hardest things he had done that day. They would never be the same, no matter what promises they made, not with the grudge that Tamlin still held on Rhysand and anything that had to do with his Court.

Tamlin would bring the house down with rage if he knew Feyre had fallen in love with Rhysand, of all people. Well, he would probably do that if Feyre left him for anyone. His reaction to Rhysand being that person may be worse than just bringing the house down…

That was why Lucien had decided not to tell Tamlin. Especially knowing they would be seeing Rhysand the next day; while Lucien himself didn’t think much of the High Lord of the Night Court, he knew that Feyre truly loved him, and that he had been her only friend in Under the Mountain. For that, Lucien was willing to spare Rhys the trouble of dealing with Tamlin’s fury.

He was lost in thought; his feet, now completely familiar with the Spring Court and the mansion, were guiding him to Tamlin’s study while his mind wandered: thinking about Feyre, thinking about how much he already missed her, about the fact that she was in love with _Rhysand_ , about how Tamlin would react to the whole matter, about the fact that he would have to break Tamlin’s heart in just a moment, about Amarantha and the Cauldron and a possible _war_ coming soon.

When he slipped between the doors of Tamlin’s study, his friend did not notice him. He was sitting behind his desk, hunched over piles and piles of paper, looking better, cleaner, than before, now that he knew he would be bringing Feyre home soon, keep her safe. His green eyes had a glaze to them, even from the distance at which Lucien stood, that had been lost over the months that Feyre had been gone. Even his soft mumbling had a bit of a cheery tone to it, as he spoke to the _bitch_ that hovered over his shoulder.

Ianthe. Lucien had warned Tamlin repeatedly. He had suggested that having Ianthe around when Feyre came home would be a bad idea, but Tamlin insisted he would talk to her and fix everything. Tamlin had ignored Lucien’s warnings of Ianthe being up to something and went off to make her a Priestess for the Spring Court. Lucien couldn’t stand the woman. And Tamlin always came to her defence—either saying that he supported her because she was his oldest friend, from when they were children; or saying that she had been through a lot as a courtesan and deserved a second chance.

Lucien always had to hold himself back from snorting at the latter statement. Ianthe had not suffered being a courtesan—the snake had said so herself the several times she had tried to seduce him. She didn’t mind selling her body, but it wasn’t getting her anywhere. Lucien knew she was ambitions, and Tamlin was blindly feeding her all her undeserved glory.

To think that, to “save” that bitch, Feyre was stuck in that hell hole; to think that he had to lie to Feyre for her—

“Well?”

Tamlin was looking up at Lucien now, a smile on his face. “What did she say?” He asked excitedly, pushing his chair back and standing up, while Ianthe, behind him, watched silently.

Lucien hesitated; he didn’t know where to begin. “Tam…” He started, and then caught himself, slowly approaching his High Lord’s desk, as Tamlin watched him, more curious, yet still as excited. Lucien couldn’t bring himself to sit down on one of the two chairs that were placed on the opposite side of Tamlin’s own, at the table. He was tense… anxious.

Ianthe’s brows furrowed. “Is there a problem?” She asked.

Lucien couldn’t help the snarl that escaped from him as his gaze snapped toward the High Priestess. Whatever he would discuss, he wouldn’t do it near her. He didn’t trust her. “I need to speak to the High Lord alone,” He said.

A small, teasing smile appeared on Ianthe’s lips, as if knowing she had the upper hand, as Tamlin said, calmly, “Ianthe can stay; I’m sure it’s no problem.”

Lucien turned back to Tamlin then, took in the controlled rage that was already swimming under the surface of his friend’s face, in the way his eyes had darkened, his jaw had tightened.

Lucien drew a deep breath. “You should sit down, Tam,” He spoke.

The tension in the room was suffocating; it was too quiet. Lucien wished there were birds outside, making at least _some_ sound, dulling the pressure in the room.

A low growl escaped Tamlin, making the hairs on Lucien’s arms rise. “Tell me what happened, Lucien,” He demanded, pinning him with an angry gaze.

Lucien didn’t look away; he wouldn’t recoil from his friend. Tamlin needed someone to console him, and Lucien was the only one who could. “Feyre…” He started, and Tamlin’s eyes widened slightly, his veined hands gripping the edges of his wooden table. Lucien decided then, to tell Tamlin the other news first, the one that would anger him less.

“There is something you should know first,” He said.

“What,” Tamlin snapped.

Lucien straightened his back, drawing a deep breath and glancing in Ianthe’s direction, before looking at Tamlin again, who was already on the verge of rage. “Amarantha is close to finding the Cauldron,” Lucien said coolly. A gasp—Lucien fought not to roll his eyes—came from the High Priestess, who raised her dainty hand to her chest. Tamlin, on the other hand… his rage had died down, and disbelief settled.

“What?” Tam asked, his eyes widening.

Lucien nodded. “I don’t know her intensions, but it can’t be any good.”

Tamlin’s brows furrowed, and he looked around the papers strewn across his desk, as if trying to comprehend the situation, understand what to say. “How do you know this?” He asked, voice hushed, as if worried Amarantha’s spies were around.

If Feyre was right about one thing, it was Tamlin’s pride. So, to avoid any unnecessary drama, Lucien lied, “Feyre found out. She’s been observing… Listening.”

A small smile quipped at the corner of Tamlin’s mouth, one that almost hurt Lucien to see. “She’s smart,” Tamlin remarked. Lucien noticed Ianthe make a face behind him, but said nothing about it.

“She is,” He agreed. “But, there’s more. We need to get word to Autumn… To my father,” He said, the thought of Beron sending a chill down his spine. Not out of fear, no… Lucien didn’t fear his father. But rather, out of hate. “Feyre has told me that Rhysand is getting word to the other Courts—Tam, he’s spying on behalf of Prythian,” Lucien added quickly, noticing how quickly Tamlin went from comprehension to anger at the mention of the High Lord of the Night Court. Tam snorted in response, to which Lucien only pinned him with a look.

“Tam, Amarantha’s planning on using _mortals_ to experiment on the Cauldron first,” He deadpanned.

Tamlin froze, and as he stared at Lucien, emerald eyes wide, Lucien knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Feyre is the only mortal in Prythian,” He voiced his thoughts slowly, as Ianthe, in the back, shook her head in disbelief. Lucien nodded slowly as he watched his friend.

“She’s likely to be the first victim,” Lucien whispered, the thought knotting his stomach. He was so thankful, so thankful that she would be leaving soon, that she would be safe.

Tamlin let out a feral, terrifying growl. “And I left her there… For months, I left her there, when she could have been killed—” He caught himself, and Lucien could only watch as his High Lord attempted to piece a plan together, figure things out.

“We leave at dawn tomorrow,” Tamlin stated. “We leave at dawn and bring her home, no matter what.”

At that, Lucien realised that he hadn’t even spoken about the other large matter, the one that would possibly break Tamlin’s heart, would definitely send him to wild fury.

As his friend began to walk away, possibly give orders to the household, or recount the money they had to make sure there was no way Amarantha could hold Feyre back, Lucien mumbled loud enough for his companions to hear, “Tam, there’s more…”

Tam stilled, possibly unnerved by Lucien’s tone, and with his back still to him, the High Lord of Spring turned his head to face his emissary, face eerily stony, clearly waiting for him to go on.

Lucien hesitated, before saying, “Feyre, she… She said she is glad you have found the money, and she will wait for you to bring it to Under the Mountain tomorrow, but…”

“But what,” Tamlin snarled.

Not being able to tell him, Lucien shoved his hand into his pocket, pulling out the folded piece of paper that Feyre had handed him, for Tamlin. His companions watched him, as he gingerly placed the letter on the desk in front of Tamlin.

Within a second, his friend had snatched up the parchment and unfolded it, and as he read, Lucien watched Tamlin’s breathing speed up, his chest heave, and rage blaze in his eyes. Lucien braced himself, waiting for the roar, the eruption, the rampage that would possibly follow.

Lucien stepped back just in time for Tamlin to give out a booming roar that shook the windows, and flip his entire desk to the side. The expensive wood hit the wall and smashed into pieces, making Lucien wince. By the time he looked back at his friend, Tamlin had crumpled up Feyre’s letter and tossed it aside, and was picking up his desk chair while Ianthe walked over to where the letter sat, picking it up and smoothing it out before reading it out loud.

Lucien followed, while Tamlin continued his destruction of his study in the background. He listened as Ianthe read. “’ _Dear Tamlin’_ ,” She said, “’ _I am sorry that things have to end this way but whenever it is that you bring your money to free me and settle your debts, I will not be returning to the Spring Court with you. I will be going to the Night Court instead, where I promise I will be cared for and safe. Please do not get angry; this is a decision I have made of my own free will. I am grateful for all you have done for me and the time we have had together. I hope this does not affect your involvement with everything else that will happen from today, for the sake of Prythian. I wish you happiness and a good life. Love, Feyre_ ’.”

Another ear-splitting roar from behind, and when Lucien turned around to look at him, Tamlin was glaring at the two of them, his face wild, animalistic. His chest was heaving, his eyes blazing. “What did he do to her,” He growled. And Lucien knew who he was talking about.

“I don’t know what Rhysand did,” Lucien said quietly, and another growl came from Tamlin at the mention of the High Lord of Night’s name. “But, Tamlin, she… I swear it, she looks cared for, and… She really, truly wishes to go to the Night Court. Please, Tam… Don’t force her. Don’t—”

Before he knew it, Tamlin had let out an angry cry and stalked across the room, grabbing Lucien by the collar of his shirt. His High Lord looked him directly in the eyes now, absolute hot rage searing through his face, just inches from Lucien’s own, warm breath puffing over Lucien’s face as Tamlin’s chest heaved in ire.

Lucien didn’t even gasp, despite his shock at the way Tamlin held him, his tunic bunched up in the High Lord’s fist, the back of his collar digging into his neck. He wasn’t afraid, he knew Tamlin, his friend, wouldn’t hurt him. But when it came to Feyre, especially with the involvement of Rhys… Tam needed this, needed to let his anger out, needed someone to be there for him.

“ _She is coming to the Spring Court_ ,” Tamlin spat, still looking right at Lucien, and Lucien had to force himself not to wince—at the way Tamlin directly went against Feyre’s wishes. “This is her home,” He snarled, “I am her _home_.”

Lucien found himself getting annoyed, furious even. “Do you plan on dragging her back here against her—”

A pale hand, adorned with several silver rings, came to rest on Tamlin’s broad shoulder. “Tamlin, if I may,” Ianthe said, and Lucien, even without hearing her, felt the urge to swear at her. Tam was still looking at him, but as Ianthe’s hand remained on his shoulder, he slowly let go of Lucien’s shirt pulling away to look at the High Priestess.

As Lucien began straightening his tunic, he turned to the fair haired woman, listening as she proposed a plan to Tamlin, and his heart stopped.

“Feyre needs something to convince her to come back,” Ianthe said, a smile on her lips. “She has two sisters just over the border, does she not? We can use them as leverage, tell her that we will offer them to Amarantha as mortals for her experiments if she does not return.”

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry you guys! I had this chapter halfway done but then my laptop got busted and it took me three months to finally get it fixed. I legitimately RACED to get this chapter done for you over two days. Enjoy and find me at http://ashtonsvelaris.tumblr.com/

Feyre had launched herself at Rhys as soon as he stepped into her cell.

The feel of him against her—possibly for the last time for a long time—of his strong arms around her, his firm chest against her cheek, the rich fabric of his dark clothes against her dirty skin, the thump of his heartbeat against her ear, the scent of him, of jasmine and citrus and the sea, all enveloping her…. It was too much. She burst into silent tears as soon as she touched him.

Rhys caught her, his body taut in alarm. “Feyre? Feyre, what is it?”

But Feyre only clung to him and sobbed, unable to bring herself to pull back long enough to actually tell him what the problem was. Rhys held her still, one hand stroking through her knotted hair while the other wrapped around her middle, holding her protectively. She felt him rest his cheek on the top of her head, and was grateful for his patience as she let their closeness, the feeling of him holding her, calm her for a few moments.

It felt like minutes had passed when she finally pulled back to look up at him. He was staring at her, panic and calm both lining his beautiful features. Feyre could see herself reflected in the purple of his eyes. Rhys. Her Rhys. Her High Lord.

With shaking hands, Feyre managed to finally sign, _Tamlin has the money. He’s coming tomorrow_.

She already knew what his reaction would be, as he stared at her for a few seconds to comprehend what she had just said, until a small, sad smile broke out on his lips. “Feyre, that’s good,” He whispered, his breath breezing over her cheeks—even that made her tremble, knowing even that was something she was leaving behind to endure the darkness of Under the Mountain alone.

Rhys’ hands rose to cup Feyre’s cold cheeks, callouses brushing against her skin as Rhys stroked his thumbs back and forth, clearing away her tears. Feyre shook her head in his grip, pressing a tear-wet kiss against his pale palm. A sad chuckle came from Rhys. “You’ll be free, darling,” He whispered, his lips against her forehead, “And… Hopefully, _hopefully_ , it’ll be a seamless journey for you to go home from here, once Lucien gives Tamlin your letter. Then the Circle will take care of you. You’ll be safe.”

Her selfless, gentle Rhys.

Feyre stared at him, at the sadness on his face that he was trying to mask with the relief that he also felt. Her everything. She couldn’t leave him behind, to suffer alone again.

 _I don’t want to leave you_ , She signed.

Another sad smile. “I can handle myself, you know,” He said, a forced teasing tone in his voice. “Have I really softened up that much?” 

Feyre tried to smile, but couldn’t bring herself to do so. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tight, just once, feeling his muscles under his clothes, needing the closeness _. You can handle yourself_ , She signed, _But I can support you, be there for you, if I am here._

Rhys’ eyes glassed over, the forced smile disappearing from his face. “Feyre,” He spoke, his hands reaching up and enveloping her own, bringing them to his lips. Feyre closed her eyes for a moment as Rhys peppered kisses over her fists. “I love you so much,” He mumbled against her skin.

 _I’ll miss you_ , Feyre mouthed, to which Rhys replied with another sad smile.

“Spend the night in my quarters with me,” He whispered. “I… It’s our last night together, I don’t want you to be down here.”

* * *

 

The last time Feyre had been in Rhys’ vast stone room had been the first time she had begun falling in love with him, when he had saved her from losing herself once again and brought her to get her cleaned up, when she saw him for what he truly was, what very few others had been able to see: a victim, a selfless, kind male.

It felt like it had been a lifetime ago.

Feyre eyed the massive ebony bed, just a few steps away from her, the bed on which her sweet, beautiful Rhys had been repeatedly tortured, defiled, by the woman who still owned both of them.

“I… I change the sheets every time,” Rhys offered from where he stood next to her, his hand clasping her own frail one, his massive wings already stretched out behind him, and Feyre realised she had been staring at the bed. Tearing her eyes away, Feyre turned to Rhys; he was tense, unsure, as he watched her, his body stiff, his chest heaving slowly, his expressions so soft, so… insecure.

Feyre loved him so much, the feeling could kill her.

She offered him a small smile, which he returned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Once again Feyre found herself overwhelmed with distress, over having to leave him—but she held back from throwing herself against his chest and sobbing.

Instead, she stared at him, her tear-blurred sight still making out the features of his perfect form: his graceful posture, slightly weighed down by the grief that Feyre herself felt; the set of Night Court clothes, always in his signature black, matching his short raven hair that she loved having her hands in; his beautiful pale face, like moonlight in the night sky, the scent and aura of home that flowed from him… Her Rhys. Her beautiful, perfect, tortured Rhys, who deserved the world and more.

With shaking hands, she signed, tears falling from her eyes even without her blinking to shed them, _How am I supposed to leave you here?_

Any sort of reserve that Rhys had held broke in that moment. “Feyre,” He said, his voice breaking amidst saying her name, and within just one short stride he had her off the stone floor and in his welcoming arms, his lips finding hers in a desperate, frantic kiss. Feyre tasted salt, as she wrapped her legs around his waist and pushed her fingers into his short hair, and realised she was tasting Rhys’ tears and probably her own as well.

The familiarity and homeliness of Rhys’ lips on hers made Feyre’s heart tug. She wanted this forever, for as long as she lived, no matter the consequences. She would bleed and scream week after week if it meant that she would stay with Rhys, that Rhys would have her, for just a few moments of him being able to let everything out, for them to be together in their small illusion of happiness.

She would fight for Rhys to have the happiness and the life he deserved to have.

Feyre let out a silent sigh of comfort when Rhys laid her back on his vast bed—nowhere as soft as the one they had made love on at home, but still better than the rotting floors of the dungeon. And it smelled like him, the pillows and the sheets.

Rhys lowered himself onto her, kneeling between her spread out legs, and Feyre pulled back from their kiss, taking a moment to look up at him once more, at all his beauty. A small pout rested on his lips, making Feyre smile as she reached forward and undid his tunic. Rhys helped her, shrugging it off his shoulders, Rhys’ magic allowing his wings to disappear for just a moment to make his undressing easier, and tossing the clothing off the side of his bed, leaving him half naked, letting Feyre just a moment to gaze at the tattoos that curved up over his shoulders and onto his chest before he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her neck.

As his tongue and teeth played at her skin, his hand found its way under her sweater, making Feyre arch against his body as soon as his palm found her breast. Rhys hardened against her at the motion, and his low groan twinned the one she would have had if she could speak. Feyre raised her arms in time for him to tug her sweater off easily, joining his tunic on the floor.

“Beautiful,” He mumbled, his lips against her jaw, before they found her own again. This time, Rhys kissed her with a feral hunger, and Feyre opened her mouth to him, letting him slide his tongue inside, caress her own, dragging a silent moan out of her. 

She clutched his face against her own, lost in the feeling of him, his warmth, his bare chest pressed against her own. Her body sparked everywhere when Rhys ground his hips against her own, and she grew hungry with need, feeling herself already desperate for his touch.

But she knew he wouldn’t give in so easily; she knew he wanted to drag this moment on for longer, explore her body and what they could do together, for hours and hours, if he could.

Rhys pulled back, his tongue now grazing a hot, wet line down from her chin, her neck, to her chest, and it was Feyre’s turn to grind her hips against his, as he moaned her name and circled his tongue around her stiff nipple. A silent whimper escaped Feyre’s lips, taking in the way Rhys’ actions got hungrier by the second, as he ground his hips against hers again—harder, teasing her to the point where desperation kicked in and Feyre found herself grabbing at his back, her palms and nails messily, carelessly, grazing against his wings, emitting a deep groan from Rhys, muffled against where his tongue and teeth were playing at her breast.

Rhys pulled back then, straightening up on his knees. Feyre whined silently in protest, at the loss of his touch, his warmth, his weight over her, until she looked up at him.

Rhysand was a glorious sight, kneeling above her, his chest heaving, already gleaming slightly with sweat, his breathing escaping his lips in deep huffs, his vast wings stretched out behind him, just as tense as he was. But his face—the dark, animalistic look in his violet irises, the way he licked his lips as he stared at Feyre, his perfect, sharp features now flushed—his face was what drove Feyre insane as she immediately shot up on her knees, pressing her lips against his at such a force that Rhys let out a guttural growl of approval into her mouth, his tongue dragging a hot trail against hers.

Feyre could feel herself getting wetter and wetter; she wanted, _needed_ to touch him, feel more of him, feel all of him against her. She didn’t want to hold back, not one bit.

As Rhys’ kisses grew sloppier, his lips moving to her neck, biting at the sensitive skin there, Feyre grabbed at his pants, her body rocking against his in tension as Rhys held her close. He growled again as his pants dropped to his knees, and Feyre’s mouth opened in hunger as she felt him pressed against her stomach: hard, moist, all for her.

She reached a hand to touch him, but Rhys held her wrist immediately, firm but gentle, as he pulled back from her neck, no doubt having left marks. Feyre whined again, in silent protest, when Rhys looked at her, a sparkle in his eyes as he smirked and shook his head.

Teasingly, Feyre sneered at him; she _needed_ him, and he was teasing her so horribly. The action made a short laugh escape from Rhys, and he pressed a quick, soft kiss to her lips.

_Bastard. Teasing bastard._

Feyre tilted her head forward to bite at his lip, to draw him in for something longer, deeper, but Rhys seemed to have other plans. Within a second, before Feyre herself could process it, Rhys had backed himself off the bed, grabbing Feyre her thighs and pulling her with him, until she rested with half her body on the bed, with her legs now hanging over either of his shoulders, right next to his magnificent wings, as he knelt before her.

Feyre felt herself heating up just at the thought of what was about to happen, remembering what Rhys had said to her that night when they first made love: _one day when you are not in pain, my darling, I’ll have you on your back and I will taste you for as long as possible._

And, _oh_ , that one lick from that night had been much less than a ghost of what Rhys was doing to her now.

Just from that first, hot lick, Feyre’s toes curled and her back arched, a silent gasp escaping her lips.

Rhys growled once again, at her taste, and one of hands came up to grip her thigh as his mouth began working at full force. Feyre’s body began rocking against the feeling, and Rhys’ other hand came up to pin her hips to the bed, the action somehow making her wetter, before Rhys’ tongue slid inside her.

She closed her eyes against all the tension building up inside her, one of her hands gripping the ebony sheets, the other tangled in Rhys’ ruffled hair, her mouth wide open, inaudibly praising the male kneeling before her with moans and whimpers, saying his name—wishing she could say it out loud, scream it so the stars could hear.

As Rhys’ long fingers replaced his tongue, curving inside her, pumping slowly, his mouth still working at her, Feyre lost herself, her body jerking with her climax, Rhys’ name a silent call on her lips. Rhys moaned her name as she came over his fingers, and when she grounded herself again, she was still trembling, watching Rhys still kneeling in front of her, licking at her, as if not willing to leave a bit of her untouched.

The sight of him, kneeling for her, worshipping her with his tongue—it painfully grew her desire for him, even after having climaxed already. She tugged at Rhys’ hair, hoping the action would be enough to indicate that she wanted him right then, that she didn’t want to wait.

And as per her command, Rhys rose to his feet, the look on his face absolutely primal as he pinned her with his gaze, a wicked smirk on his lips, his broad chest heaving, as he raised his hand, his fingers slick still from when they were inside her, and moved them into his mouth, his eyelids fluttering close and a soft moan escaping his lips at the taste of her. Feyre noticed his cock twitch.

The sight of him made her hungry again, her desperation reaching down to her core.

She thought would die if she didn’t get to touch him.

She reached out to hold him, to bring him closer, but Rhys had already had the same idea as he leaned over her, his dark wings cutting off anything but him from her sight as he caught her lips with his for a slow kiss. His hand: broad, wicked, skillful, as it stroked down her side, making her shiver with _want_ , before his arm wrapped around the backs of her thighs, his other hand bracing both their weights on the bed behind them as he gently lifted Feyre and slid the two of them back, until her head rested once again on the dark pillows that smelled so much of Rhys.

Rhys dropped his head to hers, peppering feather-light kisses to her neck, making Feyre shiver. She reached out to touch his cock again, to feel his desire for her in her hand, and a little noise of protest escaped him, against her skin, as soon as her fingers brushed his taught, warm skin. Rhys was quick to hold her wrist again, barely a bone in his large hand. Feyre watched as he raised his head just inches away from hers and brought her hand up, her fingers desperate to touch him, and pressed her palm against his wet, hot lips.

His gaze never dropped from hers; Feyre was lost in the intensity of it, as he pinned her with the hunger that he still held for her, his warm breath passing over her hand and against her own face, mingling with her own. She wanted this sight forever, of his face near hers, of seeing nothing but him; she would never grow tired of it.

Rhys continued to stare at her as he settled himself in between her spread legs, his cock nudging her entrance, the feeling making her arch up against his, her mouth dropping open in a silent moan. A soft chuckle escaped Rhys’ lips, and he brought his nose to nudge against hers, his lips brushing a ghost of a kiss against her own, as he slid in.

If Feyre could, she would have let out the loudest sound of pleasure just then, of feeling him inside her once again, of how perfect it all felt. Rhys groaned as he burrowed himself inside her, the feeling overwhelming Feyre, making her squeeze her eyes shut. Rhys’ hand, still holding hers, their fingers interlocked, rose up high against the pillows, while the other Feyre felt caress her cheek, the callouses welcome against her skin.

“Feyre,” Rhys murmured from above her, “Darling, look at me.”

She opened her eyes to find Rhys staring at her, his expression a mix between love and lust, and she found herself being unable to breathe, unable to think about anything but him as she raised a hand to touch his face, memorise the feeling of him against her.

I love you, She mouthed to him. Her Rhysand.

Rhys pulled out slightly, and thrust into her, making Feyre gasp in silence and raise her hips to his. 

He stared at her still, never looking away. And she didn’t look away from him either, refusing to look at anything but him, as they moved together in a perfect rhythm.

“Feyre,” Rhys moaned, “You have no idea how much I—”

He began moving faster, harder, and Feyre knew she was on the verge of exploding from the feeling.

“—How much I want this—”

Feyre saw the darkest night and the most brilliant stars and Rhys, only her Rhys, above her, staring at her with so much love she could live on just that forever.

“—How much I love you—Oh, my darling. My Feyre.”

Feyre hadn’t realised she had been crying until she felt her tears at the sides of her face, overwhelmed with love and sorrow and desperation. _I’m yours_ , She mouthed to the male above her, _My Rhys. I love you so much._

And she grabbed his face in her hands as he continued to pound into her, losing his rhythm, becoming messier as both of them neared their release. Feyre pulled Rhys’ face to hers, and he answered with a deep kiss, their tongues and teeth clashing, hungry, desperate, messy.

They reached their climax together, Rhys slamming deep into her, Feyre biting down on Rhys’ lip, Rhys growling loudly into her mouth, using their kiss to muffle his voice from the rest of the people in the mountain. He drew out the moment with slow, lazy thrusts inside her, the room taken over by complete silence, the only sound being the sound of Rhys’ panting—deep, short, against Feyre’s ear.

Feyre wasn’t sure how long they had lain like that, with Rhys’ face pressed against the crook of her neck, and her own against his broad shoulder, against the dark lines of his tattoo, and her hand stroking slow patterns on his muscled back.

She wasn’t even sure how long they had lain staring at each other afterwards, when Rhys pulled out and moved off her, and the two of them did nothing but stare each other on their sides, lazily touching each other, eyes and hands and bodies not ready to let go of each other, determined to savour the feeling of each other.

It must have been very late in the night, but neither of them slept, even as Rhys pulled Feyre close against him and tucked her into his chest, his strong arms wrapped around her thin body, his wings cocooning both of them, their legs tangled up. Feyre had her ear pressed against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, her fingers still tracing circles over his arm, while she relished the feeling of the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed into her hair, which his fingers were combing through.

It was Rhys who finally broke the silence. “You’re going to love living in Velaris, darling,” He murmured.

A small, sad smile broke out on Feyre’s face at the thought of being home, yet without Rhysand with her. She idly nodded her reply to him against his chest.

Rhys’ sigh—deep, longing, perhaps for his home and family—blew through her hair. “I am so proud of that place, you know,” He whispered, and Feyre wrapped her arm around him, giving him a light squeeze in response. “You’ll finally get to see how beautiful it looks at night. Oh, and Starfall, you will absolutely love Starfall.”

This time, Feyre’s curiosity peaked and she twisted her head up to look at him. Rhys’ expression, the longing in it, broke her heart. This was a male who had sacrificed his own happiness, his everything, for the people he loved. And Feyre was going to be another in that list.

Feyre held him tighter as she gazed at him, and Rhys only smiled in response—the smile that masked all his pain—and he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Every year, these spirits migrate across the sky and we can see them only from the Night Court,” He explained, yearning dripping from his voice. Feyre held him tight. She would bring him home to see that again. “We call it Starfall because the spirits look like thousands of shooting stars. Even the Court of Nightmares crawls out of Hewn City to see it. We celebrate it at home by turning off all the lights and having a party at the House of Wind. It’s absolutely breathtaking, Feyre.”

Feyre smiled in response, at the thought of Starfall—it sounded like a fantasy. Leaning her head up, she pressed a quick kiss to Rhys’ lips, and he chuckled softly in response, his arms wrapping tighter around her.

“I wish,” Rhys whispered against her lips, “I wish I could be there for your Starfall. I imagine would laugh with our family and dance the night away.”

Feyre couldn’t help the tear that escaped her eye, hearing him say that. Her heart tugged listening how much he missed home, his family. She hated that she couldn’t do anything to steal him away from all the pain around him.

And then she had a thought.

Wriggling herself free from Rhys’ arms, much to his little teasing whine of protest, Feyre got up and slid off the bed. “What are you doing?” Rhys asked quickly, concern and curiosity both taking over his tone as Feyre padded across the expanse of his stone room to his armoire, throwing the doors open and silently snorting at the endless piles of black inside, before taking out a silken night shirt. 

A small sound of pleasure, approval, escaped came from the male behind her as she slid it on, and turned to him. Rhys was still in bed, on his side now, a hand lifting his head as he watched her. Another painting formed in Feyre’s head; Rhys looked like a king, absolutely perfect, with his strong body, tattoos peaking over his shoulders and snaking their way to his chest and arms, his sharp features—oh his expression, it made Feyre want to jump back in that bed and make love to him all over again. The way he stared at her… it somehow mixed love, longing, curiosity and just a hint of that carnal desire that made her absolutely weak.

But she cleared her thoughts of those and instead signed, _Dance with me_.

Rhys raised a dark eyebrow, amusement and puzzlement in his face as he began to stand up slowly, following her command as in one sweep he picked up his pants and put them on with incredible ease, before taking slow, graceful steps towards her. He came to a stop just an inch away from her, his warm hands braced gently on her hips while his forehead came to rest atop her own. Feyre could smell both their scents on him. A strange sort of delight was in his voice, one which rang through her entire body, as he asked, “You want to dance, darling?”

Feyre’s smile was broad and genuine as she nodded. Raising her hands again, she signed, _I promise to have you with me during my first Starfall, but it is still some time away. I want to have our first dance now._

Rhys laughed at that, and it was music to Feyre’s ears. “You’re a magical creature, Feyre,” He whispered as he pressed a kiss to her forehead and began swaying with her. Feyre raised her arms to wrap around his neck, her fingers brushing against the short hairs at his nape as Rhys locked eyes with her. She could have sworn bright stars were dancing in his beautiful purple irises.

“I just so happen to be very good at this,” Rhys mused, to which Feyre rolled her eyes—but, she was happy that, for just a moment, she could bring such lightness to his mind, to let him make jokes and have fun.

“You don’t believe me?” He asked then, feigning hurt as his brows furrowed and a small pout appeared at his lips. Feyre couldn’t help the grin that broke out on her face as she shrugged in response, teasing him—

If she had the ability to, she would have squealed in surprise as she was swept with a great, graceful force across the room, in Rhys’ arms. Rhys’ face broke out in utter joy as he watched her, as he twirled her around and spun them across the room, lifting her up in the air with great skill, dipping her down near the floor and sensually kissing her neck, emitting silent giggles from Feyre.

They went on for once again what felt like an eternity, and Feyre hoped, prayed, that the moment would end up to drawing out for all eternity. She didn’t want to lose this feeling, she wanted to get drunk on it—on the feeling of Rhys holding her, of his smiles and laughter, of feeling _happy_ even if it was temporary.

But most of all, she wanted to make Rhys permanently as happy as he was in that moment.

* * *

 

The two-day trip that was required to reach the mortal village—Feyre’s village—from Prythian had been accomplished by Lucien in twelve hours. He had raced his steed to the Archeron estate, not hesitating for a moment when that bitch Ianthe had convinced Tamlin to act according to her vile suggestions. His poor horse had made it most of the way before growing tired of running so fast, so Lucien had left him tied to a tree with plenty of food and water to allow it to regain its strength.

And then Lucien took off like a dart, his Fae speed and strength allowing to make the rest of the trip to the estate. By the time he had reached the border of the village, he was out of breath and the corners of his vision were blackening. Every single one of his muscles were tired, and the harsh winter wasn’t helping either. But he still went on.

Her sisters—Feyre would want her sisters protected, and that was exactly what Lucien would do. He didn’t stop for water—no, there wasn’t enough time for even _that._ He would get and rest later, when Feyre’s sisters were safe. 

He didn’t take his time observing the white and emerald Archeron estate as he did every month when he arrived to make his deliveries on behalf of Tamlin and Feyre, to admire the several types of plants and vines lining the windows and sweeping down the balconies and peaking from the garden behind the house. This time, he hurriedly rang the massive doorbell, and even as he finally found the time to stand still, to lean against the wall and catch his breath as he waited for someone to open the massive double doors, his entire body shook with anxiety and impatience.

Finally, the door opened, and a plump, short woman came into view, squinting up at Lucien—puzzled, by the way his body was heaving as he caught his breath. “May I help you?” She demanded, before she stepped back, startled, upon taking in Lucien’s face—his pointed ears in particular. Of course, none of the workers of the house had ever been exposed to him during his monthly visits—Nesta had always made sure to send them away during their scheduled dates, and only she arrived to collect from him.

Lucien didn’t have time to somehow conceal his identity from the mortal maid. “Nesta and Elain,” He rasped. “I need them—immediately. Tell them Lucien is here, I’m a friend of Feyre’s.”

It took the woman only a moment to process what he had said, before she quickly skittered back and slammed the door in his face. Lucien swore, for a moment thinking she had just locked him out, believing him to be a threat of some sort, until his Fae hearing allowed him to make out her frantically calling out, “Miss Nesta! Miss Elain!”

He waited outside then, repeatedly checking his surroundings every few seconds, listening for any Fae folk that may be approaching, making sure they were still safe, until the door in front of him finally creaked open once again.

Nesta Archeron was in front of him, peaking out through the small gap in the doors. Lucien found himself, as usual, taken aback by how much she resembled Feyre, who had mentioned before that all three of the Archeron sisters looked exactly the same, except for a few subtle differences that set them apart completely. She was right about that, Lucien thought. While the eldest Archeron sister had the same pale face, defined features, the same golden-brown hair and blue-green eyes—and even the same physique—as Feyre, she held herself much more confidently; her posture stiffer, more shielded, her gaze cold, piercing, as if she were judging whoever she looked at.

But still, it was her uncanny similarity to Feyre, to his dear friend, that reminded him of the urgency of their situation. “Nesta—” He began, his voice finally more levelled, but Nesta interrupted him immediately, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him inside the estate, making a quick check of the area outside—checking to see if anyone else had witnessed him, Lucien realised—before she slammed the door shut.

“What are you doing here?” She demanded, turning to him, her glare burning into his skull—no warmth, no empathy in her voice. There never was. “You aren’t supposed to be here for another two weeks; my housekeeper is rambling about Fae Folk now.”

Lucien didn’t have time to apologise. “Nesta,” He pleaded, “You need to come with me. You and your sister both, please, you’re in danger—”

“Nesta?”

It was a voice he had never heard before. Just that one word, just _Nesta_ , but it sounded almost like music to Lucien. It was softer, softer than Feyre’s, and much, _much_ softer than Nesta’s.

And when Elain Archeron stepped into view behind her elder sister, Lucien’s heart stopped.

He had never met the middle Archeron sister before. But he knew it was her the same way he would have known who Nesta was—the same features that they shared with Feyre. But Elain… Elain’s eyes were brown, unlike her sisters’ and… She was the most beautiful of them all, Lucien thought. And he hadn’t thought of a female like that since _Jesminda_.

While Nesta was confident, icy, Elain resembled a doe: gentle, cautious, even slightly frightened, as she watched her sister. Her brows were furrowed, her lips parted gently, her hands clasped together at her chest. Lucien wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t bring himself to tear his attention away from her to speak to them both, until her gaze finally fell on him, her head tilting slightly in curiosity.

“Who are you?” She asked. It sounded like music again, like a gentle breeze brushing against flowers in the Spring. Lucien found his cheeks and neck heating.

But Nesta wasn’t ready to have any of it, as she ordered, “Elain, go back inside.”

Lucien was quick—possibly too loud, even, as he quickly exclaimed, “No!” to which Elain jumped, and Nesta sneered at him.

“ _No_?” Nesta snapped, “What is it that you want, Lucien?”

He needed to get them out. They were losing time. He glanced between both sisters again, as Elain came forward and wrapped a thin arm around her sister’s waist. “Please,” Lucien begged, “You need to come with me. To Prythian. You’re both in horrible danger. Feyre—”

“Where is Feyre? Is she safe?” Elain inquired, panic in her tone, her beautiful warm eyes widening, while Nesta’s expression, if possible, grew even colder, her arm coming up around Elain, as if to shield her from Lucien.

“Come to _Prythian_?” Nesta demanded, shaking her head. “We refused a year ago, and we will refuse again now. Prythian is not for us, and I refuse to live among you Fair Folk. My sister has a better life there, and we have a better life here. Be gone, Lucien. And don’t you _dare_ show up like this again.”

 _They didn’t have time, they didn’t have time_. Lucien was growing desperate. He took a step forward, which only seemed to make Nesta angrier. “Please, Nesta, Elain—” He looked at the younger sister now, trying to reason with both of them. His voice grew shaky, agitated, as he spoke, “I don’t have time to explain it to you. Feyre is in trouble, but hopefully not for long. But you are both in grave danger—you’ll be safer if you’re inside Prythian, protected by Tamlin, than out here, where—”

Lucien stopped speaking as soon as he heard the sound of several pairs of heavy Fae boots hit the ground outside.

He was too late.


End file.
